


Something About the Language of Flowers

by ightybug



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:03:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4380026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ightybug/pseuds/ightybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is failing miserably in his efforts to adjust to civilian life. That is, until he meets Sherlock, a florist with more than a passing interest in poisonous plants. That knowledge may come in handy as they take on a serial killer who is attacking veterans recently returned from war.  </p><p>Or, Sherlock is a brilliant idiot and John is his damsel in distress. Until the moment that all changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Adjusting his uniform jacket, John glared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He hated these sorts of events. All formality and ostentatious patriotism. This time around it was a dinner held in honor of wounded veterans recently returned from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. An event peopled mainly by politicians and other elite society. And he was a guest of honor. 

“Lucky me,” he thought sarcastically, not really pausing to dwell too long on the lucky fact that he was still alive to stand here and suffer through these formalities. No, dwelling did not lead to anything good and he had been spending more days than not in a fairly dark place in his mind. 

“Appreciate the moment,” his therapist would remind him.

“We’re so glad to have you. Just think, if you hadn’t come back...” his coworkers gush, never quite sure how to gracefully end such a statement.

But, really, who gave a genuine moment of time to think about how fortunate the world was to still be in possession of one John H. Watson? John was pretty sure he could count the number on one hand. One finger maybe (that would be himself. Guess which finger that was?), or on the really bad days, none at all. 

He gave himself one last glance in the opulent mirror, all gilded edges and mounted on the rich mahogany wall, tugged at the hem of his jacket trying not to feel too out of his element and turned toward the door. He had gotten there early, as was requested of the service members being honored tonight. Now, he was dreading the awkward milling about that would take place while other attendees trickled in. 

John pushed the door open, possibly more forcefully than absolutely necessary. He could blame that on his injuries, though, right? On his mostly healed left shoulder. He doesn’t know his own strength anymore. That door really looked like it ought to be heavier. 

He walked out just as forcefully and immediately slammed into a bouquet of flowers that had been rushing down the hallway in the direction of the ballroom. The bouquet was juggled and almost dropped, water spilling everywhere. John got away mostly unscathed, but the man holding the vase was not quite as lucky. His dress shirt was soaked and water was seeping more slowly into the arm and lapel of the suit jacket.

With some choice expletives from both men, John helped steady the vase before stepping back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming. I didn’t mean to bowl you over like that,“ John said as he took a moment to look over the tall (dark and handsome?) man standing in front of him. 

“Obviously,” the gentleman said in an icy tone, alternating between glaring at John and transferring the vase from one hand to the other to brush what water he could off of his suit jacket. 

“Well, it’s not like you were really looking where you were going at all,” John snapped back, indignant. And really? He would need to work on his manners. That was entirely uncalled for, but in the moment he felt his righteous indignation fighting to take hold. He couldn’t deny it was exacerbated by the fact that the tall stranger remained strangely aloof and seemed more invested in the status of his suit than in anything about John. Although, that might make sense considering the posh git’s suit was probably worth more than John’s whole wardrobe combined. Maybe more than all of John’s everything combined. John was becoming more and more uncomfortable and felt distinctly out classed by this particular well-dressed man. 

“If you will excuse me,” the man huffed as he continued down the hallway toward the ballroom. 

Well, that was awkward. Night’s off to a great start, John thought as he tamped down his anger and walked, more slowly, in the direction the other man had gone. He entered the ballroom and looked around. He made his way over to the other soldiers, bracing himself for an evening of small talk focused on tours of duty, respective lengths of military careers, families (or deflecting to avoid talking about their lacks thereof). There was a distinct avoidance of the reasons why they all were here in the first place. Of why their wounds had elevated them to the status of heroes when they had been happy to maintain anonymous silence. 

As the conversation continued around him, John found his eyes drawn back to the man with the flowers. He cut a striking figure, all regal elegance and refinement, despite the sodden clothes. The flower arrangements he fussed over were simple, classy affairs. Collections of red, white, and blue blooms. Very patriotic, but done in a way that made it seem effortless, not hokey. 

John noticed an even more well-dressed man walk up to the stranger and speak to him in a hushed, agitated tone. Who were these people, and who in the world dressed like that? 

********

“Sherlock, what are you still doing here?” Mycroft demanded in a low, menacing tone. “You were supposed to finish with set up before anyone arrived.”

“Oh, come off it, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped without breaking the focus he gave to the floral arrangements on the table in front of him. “You wanted me to do you a favor, and here I am. Take what you can get. I even worked within the confines of your Queen and country color scheme, which is appalling, but there you have it.”

“We both know you are only still hanging around because this is a military affair. Are you really so predictable?” Mycroft intoned in a smug, all-knowing voice.

“Piss off,” Sherlock spat back as he walked toward the staging area where his floral arrangements, abominations though they were, were prepped and ready to be displayed. 

Mycroft followed, having had much practice with a sulky Sherlock storming away. He barely even rolled his eyes at his brother’s ever-present childishness before strolling after him. He was not exactly above childishness himself as he asked, “what happened to your suit? You are soaking wet.” 

Sherlock did not bother to answer, busying himself with the last of the flowers. Eventually, he bit out, “you could just hijack the building’s security system and find out yourself.” 

“Oh, brother dear, you are getting frightfully mundane with your comebacks. Of course I could have the security system hijacked, as you say. It is being monitored as we speak. But I thought I might like to hear the story from you.” 

“I was walking with a vase and someone bumped into me. What, do you think I want to walk around like I’m participating in some kind of wet t-shirt contest?” Sherlock snapped.

“In this context, is it possible you want to rescind that last question?” Mycroft asked in his infuriatingly self-satisfied tone. 

“No,” said Sherlock as he turned to leave with the last two floral arrangements in his hands. 

“Sherlock, put those out and be on your way, if you would. Your assistance tonight has already been suitable,” Mycroft said as Sherlock hurried away. He made a mental note to find out who that clumsy someone was. 

********

John sat at a table at the front of the room, trying not to nod off during the speeches that incessantly droned on in the background. Commitment to our returning troops, blah blah, reintegration to civilian life, blah blah, support systems. Pretending to look engaged, his eyes settled on the flower arrangement in front of him. He admired the deep reds and vibrant blues while he picked at the last of his dinner growing cold on the plate in front of him. 

As he glanced across the table, John noticed that one of the other honorees looked odd. He was sweating and shaking. It looked like he was having an even harder time sitting still than John was, difficult as that was to believe. 

Suddenly, the man stood up and started yelling incoherently at the top of his lungs. The entire room stopped to stare at him as he raged. He grabbed the vase off the table and slammed it to the floor where it shattered and scattered flowers at his feet. Then, he reached for a butter knife. 

The veterans seated near the man jumped into action, military reflexes primed in the presence of such an unpredictable threat. They brought the man to the ground, taking all their effort to subdue the angrily flailing soldier. 

John rushed over to see what he could do. "I'm a doctor. Let me through," he urged as he pushed into the melee. "Hold him down. Secure his feet. You, call an ambulance," John commanded while pointing to a man at the next table over, his training kicking in and taking charge of the situation. 

John began to examine the man who was still yelling vigorously, trying his hardest to break free from the hands restraining him. His pupils were blown wide. His heart rate was elevated and thready. This was not looking good.

********

Sherlock dawdled as much as possible, if only to irritate his brother. As he was finally leaving, he heard a commotion followed by vigorous shouting coming from the ballroom. Always inclined to head toward the source of chaos, he rushed back into the ballroom and pushed through a wall of panicky spectators. Approaching the source of the screaming, Sherlock noticed the man being held down by three other men and a woman as he desperately flailed to free himself. He saw the soldier from the earlier hallway incident kneeling by the man's head, taking his vitals. So, Army doctor, then.

Sherlock observed the goings on for a moment, trying to piece together any clues that may be present within the chaotic scene. Obvious first deduction: poison. All the signs were there. Confusion , belligerence. It caused violent outbursts and hallucinations, evidenced by the raving flashback the man appeared to be having of an inhospitable, faraway landscape under a blazing sun, mortars and gunshots, landmines and suicide bombers. 

What else could cause these symptoms? Had something just snapped and caused a vivid flashback to the moment when everything went very wrong for this soldier? The day when nothing in his life would ever be the same? Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was receiving more attention these days. It could always be written off as a lingering side effect of the war. But that would not do well for the image they were trying to present with this evening's event; how England was committed to proper treatment and therapy for those men and women returning from the wars. No, these service members had to have been rigorously screened to ensure the chances of them experiencing a psychotic break during dinner were slim to none. Mycroft would have seen to that. 

Okay, so poison. Sherlock still did not have enough evidence. How was the poison administered? It seemed unlikely that it was disbursed through the air, since it only seemed to affect this one man. Was it ingested? Transmitted through the skin by touch? To be safe, Sherlock put on his gloves that came in handy for just such evidence gathering occasions. 

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock demanded as he rushed to examine the area where the man had been sitting. He looked to his right and caught a startled glance from the blond Army doctor who quickly schooled his features and returned to examining his patient. 

Sherlock began collecting samples: of the man's food, his drink, his napkin as paramedics rushed in and gathered the man onto a gurney, strapping his arms and legs down to minimize his movements. The Army doctor was still giving instructions as they began wheeling the patient away. 

Sherlock focused on the scene in front of him, trying to narrow down the options. "What about the flowers?" said a voice from over his shoulder. 

"What about them?" Sherlock snapped back. Of course it wasn't the flowers. He was not foolish enough to fill his floral arrangements with blatantly deadly blooms. He chose the showiest, non-deadly flowers for public consumption, mostly because he could not trust the idiotic general public to not actually consume or otherwise disrespect the flowers in some way. It was obviously not the flowers.

As the unwelcome questioner quickly retreated from the area, Sherlock continued to examine the scene. Someone else approached on his right side, and he glanced over with a scowl that he hoped would put a stop to any further interruptions. That is until the Army doctor, who’s name Sherlock had observed to be John H. Watson, Captain, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, said, “so, do people always think you are the culprit?” Despite the gravity of the situation, there was a hint of playfulness in the question. Likely a side effect of the adrenaline rush. Inappropriate giddiness.

Sherlock looked at him for a minute too long, admiring the impish glint in the man’s eyes (yes, definitely inappropriate) and then turned back to the table. “Sometimes,” Sherlock said in an off hand manner, shaking his head. It really was true; people never knew what to think about him and usually ended up ascribing the worst intentions. It was exhausting, but he had long since blocked out the judgments of other people. Now, if only he could be left alone to finish collecting his evidence. 

That seemed unlikely to happen, though. While Mycroft’s minions worked to usher the remaining attendees from the ballroom, the man known as John Watson continued to observe Sherlock’s work. So, he decided to use the intrusion to gather more information about the incident. “What can you tell me about the patient’s symptoms?” Sherlock asked.

“What are you, a detective?” the man asked. 

Ugh, was he really going to be this tedious? There was evidence to be collected. This was no time for small talk.

“Of a sort,” Sherlock replied and then went stonily silent. He hoped his abruptness was enough to deter any further questioning. 

Thankfully, the doctor took the hint and began to lay out the list of symptoms he had observed, Sherlock searched his memory for an indication of what kind of toxin they were looking for. It was difficult to tell with any certainty from the facts that currently presented themselves. He would have to do some more experiments to isolate the particular chemical compound that caused such a dramatic reaction. 

Sherlock looked back at the man whose attention was split between watching him intently and glancing at the flowers strewn across the floor. Sherlock looked down at the flowers, some of which had been crushed underfoot during the melee. What a waste. There was definitely nothing poisonous about any of those flowers on their own, however, was it possible they had been laced with something while he was setting up the ballroom? Maybe while Mycroft was busy being meddlesome? 

Sherlock gathered the evidence he had collected, crouched down and grabbed as many of the flowers as he could find. Deep in the swirl of his own thoughts, he walked away leaving the staring Army doctor behind.

“Mycroft, I’m going to need that security camera footage,” he declared as he rushed toward the exit. He knew Mycroft would try to come up with some excuse to maintain the illusion that he did not have the whole of England under his surveillance, but he had learned to ignore such protestations long ago. He did so enjoy making his older brother have to explain that allegation away. Plus, maybe there would be something in the hours and hours of security footage that would help him pin down the mode of transmission for the poison and who was responsible for putting it there.

********

John’s train of thought was abruptly interrupted while recounting his interaction with the poisoned man. The tall (dark and handsome?) stranger was now cloaked in a long, dark coat. He twirled in said coat, likely to achieve a heightened sense of melodrama that could only come from twirling coat tails, and stormed from the room. What just happened here? 

The night certainly had not ended up as dreadfully boring as he had anticipated. John took a deep breath and waited for the spike of adrenaline to wear off. The event organizers came over to talk with him, to admire his quick-witted response to the situation. “You truly are a hero,” was heard more than once, and how he hated that. He was a doctor. It is his job to save people, or at least try to. He did not feel he had done anything heroic that evening; he wasn’t even sure they would be able to save that soldier. It would not be pretty and painless if they did. What a way to go, going to hell and back, enduring war and grave injury only to return home and be poisoned at an event honoring your heroism. 

John did his best to remain calm as he talked about the night’s events. All the while, he was left wondering about the mysterious man who crashed into him earlier and then swept away just as abruptly. Who was he? Was he a florist or an undercover detective? What was his relationship to the insufferable-looking man in the three piece suit? John realized he didn’t even have a chance to get the man’s name during the course of the chaotic evening. It was not terribly surprising, though. That man had not been terribly good with social graces, which was saying a lot coming from a curmudgeon like John Watson. 

John gathered his things, went down to the lobby, and hopped into a waiting cab. As exhausted as he was, he could not wait to get home and remove his uniform. To put it into storage for a good, long time. It was time to move on, to figure out what civilian life held for him. This uniform seemed nothing but bad luck at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic, so please be gentle. It started as my NaNoWriMo novel last year, so there's a lot more where this came from. I'm so excited to share it with you!


	2. Chapter 2

Once he had changed into pyjamas, John sat down at his desk and stared at his laptop. He knew he probably ought to write something about the evening's events on his blog. His visit with his therapist was coming up this week and he had been diligently avoiding her requests that he document the things that happen in his life.

What could he possibly write about this majorly messed up evening, though? 

“I received honors from my country, and I hated every minute of it? Well, maybe not every minute. There was an exciting bit where I jumped to the aid of my poisoned table mate, a fellow injured veteran. Not sure if he will pull through, though. Then, there is the matter of the mysterious stranger who I thought was the florist but maybe was not. Maybe he was an undercover detective? Maybe he was both? He wore expensive clothes, had dark curly hair, and displayed atrocious manners. For some reason, I’m intrigued.”

Yeah, no. That would never do. 

John just sat and stared, wondering when things would start to feel normal again. What was normal anymore? 

********

Sherlock half-heartedly sifted through security footage on the computer while he also searched for any background he could find on Captain John Watson. There was not much noteworthy to be found about him on the internet. A mention here of his being invalided home from Afghanistan, a record there of him receiving his medical degree after a residency at St. Barts. Pretty mundane stuff. Things Sherlock already knew or could have easily deduced. Captain Watson was apparently not much for the social aspect of the world wide web. 

Oh, but what’s this… Sherlock thought as he clicked on a link that appeared to be a blog. Except there were no entries on this blog. Even Sherlock had a better blog than this. His at least provided useful information regarding the results of his experiments on perfumes and a ranking of the toxicity of flowers commonly found in English gardens. 

And that picture! Sherlock cringed because that picture was doing John no favors. It was hideous and he looked like a hobbit. 

Before he could become too appalled by John’s poorly constructed excuse for a blog, something caught Sherlock’s eye on the security footage. There was the image of John bursting out of the men’s room and slamming Sherlock in the face with the door. There was the awkward interaction between them, Sherlock doing his best not to act flustered in the face of this handsome military man, and both of them walking away. How embarrassing. 

Shortly after they left the scene, though, the camera turned away to face the ceiling removing any view of what was happening in the hallway. In fact, all of the security footage cut out at the exact same time. So much for Mycroft’s surveillance team.

“Curious,” Sherlock thought as he set aside all thoughts of the Army doctor and focused on untangling the events that led up to the poisoning. Next step, to test the food and drink on the poisoned man’s table setting for any traces of toxins. 

********

“So, John…” his therapist began. She always started that way, like she was getting ready to make some sort of proclamation or break some dreadful news. Either way, John was pretty sure he was not going to like it, whatever came next. 

“I see you have not been keeping up with your blog,” she continued and John could not help but feel she was judging him. Was your therapist supposed to be judgmental? Maybe when you willfully ignore any of her suggestions. Fair enough.

“There’s nothing to say. Nothing ever happens to me,” John tried, deflecting. That worked sometimes, in other parts of his life, with other people. He knew better than to think that Ella would let him get away with that for long. 

“You know that is not the truth. About the other night…” she trailed off, hoping that he would fill in the rest of the blank. As usual, he did not feel like playing along.

“What about it?” John asked in what he hoped was a questioning tone and not a defensive one. He knew full well what she wanted him to talk about.

“You know full well what I am talking about. It’s been in the papers. You saved a man’s life the other night. You are being called a hero,” Ella prodded. She was not supposed to lead the conversation this much but sometimes she had to resort to desperate measures when John was being particularly reticent. 

“I’m not a hero!” John yelled, his response blown all out of proportion to the conversation that preceded it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell like that. But I’m not. I’m not a hero. I’m not an extraordinary person. And I don’t know why anyone would want to read about what I have been up to in my utterly un-extraordinary day-to-day life,” John finished, feeling the impact of those words of confession like a physical blow. He had felt that way for a while, had entertained those thoughts cycling through his head, but he had not said it aloud. 

“Just give it a try, John,” Ella said, sounding exasperated. “Write about your breakfast. Write about your day at work. Write about the buskers in the Tube station. Just write about anything. It is all to help you adjust to your new life.”

“No one wants to hear about my day treating strep throat and skin rashes,” John shot back. 

“Well, then do something different. Here’s a list of activities to get you started. I want you to choose something from this list. Do it and write a blog about it before our next session,” Ella prescribed in a tone that allowed for no argument.

John took the paper begrudgingly as she handed it over and looked down at the suggested activities:

Join a bowling league  
Volunteer to provide pet therapy for hospitalized elders  
Learn flower arranging  
Start a stamp collection  
Learn a musical instrument  
Knit nests for orphaned baby birds or beds for orphaned animals at the pound

Really? Was he supposed to take this seriously? How were any of these things supposed to make him feel like a better, more interesting person?

“Thanks for the suggestions,” John said, when what he meant was, “you have got to be out of your bloody mind!” He folded the list and stuck it inside his jacket pocket as he walked out the door. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered with therapy. Oh yeah, that tiny thing about the psychosomatic limp and the war-induced PTSD. That’s why. At least it was someone to talk to, someone who would understand the anger behind his outbursts. He should be grateful for that. In fact, at least she had not asked him to keep a gratitude journal. 

********

Sherlock glanced at the headline on the morning paper. Attempted murder at the Military Ball. The factual inaccuracies in the article were astonishing. Sensationalized, even. They always got it so wrong. And there was that picture of Dr. Watson again. That god awful hobbit picture. Could they really not have found a better one? Well, maybe not. After all, that is the only one Sherlock could find as well. 

He had spent the night doing chemical analysis on items from the poisoned man’s table setting, but had come up empty handed. Nothing out of the ordinary from the samples taken from the plate, the silverware, or the glass. The napkin exhibited some food stains, but nothing poisonous. The flowers tested fine, harmless. He knew from the start that the flowers were not the dangerous part of this scenario. 

Moving on, Sherlock focused on his other outstanding questions. Why this particular man? What could possibly be the motive? Sherlock ran a background check on the veteran using Mycroft’s ever-useful security clearance but could not find anything that seemed damning. Not the usual type of profile for secret vendettas: married his high school sweetheart, had two children, enlisted when he was 18 and had been career military ever since. Invalided home from Iraq with severe burns and a concussion from an IED. Months of rehabilitation. Honored at this event for his valor in service to his country and the world wide war against terrorism. 

Nothing stood out as a reason he would be targeted by covert killers. Well, would-be killers. Captain John Watson was quick to notice the symptoms and his immediate action had probably saved this man’s life. The papers were calling him a hero. Sherlock wondered if that would do anything to make the man less angry. He really appeared to be a time bomb of frustration, boredom, and something else. Guilt? Regret? Self pity? It was a shame really.

Sherlock contemplated using Mycroft’s security clearance to search for more information about Cpt. John H. Watson, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. Since his civilian internet history was appallingly nonexistent, Sherlock figured the official military record might provide some more interesting insights. 

He quickly shook off that train of thought. Stalking the handsome man in uniform who spilled water all over his favorite suit at the military ball in an awkwardly timed collision was not productive. Stalking the handsome Army doctor who Sherlock had watched in action helping his patient, who had come over to talk with Sherlock afterward with an indecent gleam in his eye. Yeah, no. Really not productive. Time to focus on the case. On figuring out who could be responsible for this poisoning in the first place and determining if they would strike again. If so, who might be the next target? 

********

John sat at his desk staring at the piece of paper Ella had handed him. He could have avoided all this if he’d just been less stubborn and taken her advice to write about his breakfast. He could describe in detail exactly how he likes his toast buttered and how he takes his tea (some milk, no sugar). He could describe it and no one in the world would ever care but he could say he had shared something with the world. Something important? Who’s to say. Maybe how we take our toast and tea is really the most important thing anyone could know about us. 

He had no one to blame but himself for this mess he found himself in. What insipid, feel-good activity could he participate in to appease his therapist? If he ever hoped to move on to a life after therapy, maybe it would be in his best interests to start playing along. 

"If I'm going to play, I might as well go for the most absurd thing on the list," John thought. That was a tough choice, though. It came down to knitting nests for orphaned baby birds or flower arranging. Buying knitting needles and yarn seemed like too much of an investment for a one time activity he was basically doing on a dare, so flower arranging it was then. 

John had never put much thought into decorative flower arrangements. Sure, he had bought his fair share of bouquets for girlfriends, or women that he wanted to be girlfriends, or sometimes even women that he just wanted to get to know well enough to have sex with. Yes, he really had no use for flowers outside of the context of sexual relationship negotiation technique. He certainly did not buy them for his own home. In fact, he didn’t even own a vase in which to keep flowers alive for more than a day or two. 

Next to each suggestion were some helpful links to get one started. He turned on his laptop and went to the website for a place called Oleander's flower shop. John spent some time poking around on the site, looking at examples of their arrangements for society events, funerals, and the like. It was all very classy and modern. Their Valentine's Day arrangements looked like anything but what you would normally see, and John thought he would be a bit intimidated and possibly slightly frightened to receive a bouquet like the one pictured. Not that anyone had ever given him flowers aside from that one boutonniere he had received from his date to the school formal, the one that was all carnations and baby's breath. Typical, classic, slightly boring, and definitely nothing like the images here. 

John found the link for the event calendar. Reminders for important flower-focused holidays. Other reminders that he could not quite comprehend the flower shop connection. The flower arranging class was coming up that Saturday which gave him much less time to back down from his decision due to embarrassment. He noted down the address. 

Then, as if it made any difference either way, he wrote a blog post about his preferences for tea and toast that he was sure no one would ever bother to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the warm reception! With the way life and work is shaking out, it looks like I'll be posting on Sunday evenings (so, Monday for most of the rest of the world).
> 
> I'll promise we'll get back to more in-person interactions next week.


	3. Chapter 3

John walked confidently in the direction of the flower shop, silently lamenting the stubbornness that got him into incredibly uncomfortable situations. 

You invaded Afghanistan and survived. You certainly will not die of embarrassment attending a flower arranging class, he mentally coached himself. His body was unsure whether to believe it, though, and he found himself limping as he approached the door of the shop. He made a mental note to find some way to get back at Ella for this as he reached for the door handle and walked inside. 

The sight that greeted him was stunning. Vibrantly colored flowers in all sorts of jewel tones were studiously arranged and displayed in a way that was anything but your typical flower shop. No plastic buckets displaying a variation on the theme of roses and chrysanthemums. These flowers were out of the ordinary and some were even downright exotic. He didn't even know flowers came in some of these colors. Were those green carnations? And who knew such a variety of black flowers existed?

Before John could fully process his surroundings, a woman rushed out from the back of the shop. Her long, brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her shirt appeared to have a pattern of cats on it. 

“Oh, hi!” she said, a little overzealously with a bright smile to match. “Are you here for the class?”

“Um, yes. Yes, I am. The flower arranging class?” John replied. 

“Great! I’m Molly, I’ll be teaching the class today,” she said. “And you are?”

“John,” he said while belatedly extending his hand to shake hers. 

From the back of the shop a deep voice yelled, “Molly!” 

“Sorry,” Molly said, making an apologetic gesture and dropping John’s hand. “I’ll be right back. Take a look around. Make yourself comfortable.” 

As if that was going to happen, John thought. 

*************

Molly hurried down the narrow hallway to the office in the back of the flower shop. Upon arriving she found Sherlock leaning against a desk strewn with bills and orders and books, deep in thought and looking at the headline on the day’s newspaper. Military murderer strikes again. 

“Molly, I need you to get me a tissue sample from this latest murder victim,” Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone. 

It looked like they potentially had a serial killer on their hands. How exciting! Molly would certainly help him. Molly did anything he asked of her. Sure, she hedged and made excuses for why she couldn’t do those things but then she did them anyway. 

“But I’m not working today,” Molly said, knowing it would not deter Sherlock in the least. He wasn’t even listening to her, of course. 

“There has to be some connection,” Sherlock was muttering to himself. “Who would target members of the military, particularly those returned from war?” he continued, not expecting an answer. 

Molly knew there was no getting through to him in these moods, so she quietly slipped out of the room to gather the supplies for her class.

********

John looked around the shop, examining the flowers more closely, vaguely registering the sound of voices in the background. The flowers were displayed with little cards that listed the name and “meaning” of the flower:

Begonia...Caution  
Camellia (red)...Unpretending excellence  
French Marigold... Jealousy  
Heath…Solitude  
Hellebore…Calumny, Scandal  
Marigold...Grief  
Pink…Boldness  
Poppy…Fantastic extravagance  
Purple Verbena…Regret  
Quince...Temptation  
Scabiosa…Unfortunate love  
Thistle...Misanthropy  
Tuberose...Dangerous pleasures

What was this place? John’s initial feeling of dread was reinforced by each card he read. It was a visual representation of the deeply held feelings and fears one carries but rarely names. Ella did this on purpose, didn’t she? It was like therapy all over and she knew he had a hard time putting voice to the messy emotions swirling inside of him. 

You could just walk out now, John thought. The desire to flee was so visceral he turned toward the door and walked in that direction. However, in his haste to get away, John tripped on one of the table legs holding a display of flowers. He reached out to grab the vase before it toppled to the floor. His reaction time was still fast, despite his body rebelling in other ways. As he resettled the vase on the table, hoping desperately that no one had seen him stumble, he read the card attached: 

Love-lies-bleeding...Hopeless but not helpless

John certainly felt a bit hopeless and helpless right now. What had he gotten himself into? He continued toward the door and turned the handle just as the door was pulled open by someone on the other side. Four women walked in, giggling and exclaiming loudly about John’s gallantry. He held the door while they entered, his mind screaming at him to run, but a voice from the back of the shop said, “oh good, you are here. Let’s begin.”

********

Sherlock heard a commotion from out on the floor and walked down the hall to investigate. He was well-practiced at avoiding customers when he wanted to, so he only went far enough not to be easily noticed. What he found there surprised him. 

The man he had literally run into the previous weekend was focused on righting the vase he had disrupted. This seemed to be a theme with him. The look of mortification and anxiety on his face was almost charming. The eye rolling look of judgement that he gave the card attached to the flowers was less so. Those were some of Sherlock’s favorites. 

Oh, who was he kidding? They were all his favorites. He had hand-picked Oleander’s selection of heirloom flowers based on their ability to reflect the baser instincts of humanity: desire, loss, betrayal, among other things. He hadn't figured he would find a niche in the floral market, but people seemed inexplicably drawn to his shop. 

Sherlock observed John’s more pronounced limp with interest before he realized John was headed for the door. 

“Molly, make sure he doesn’t get away,” he hissed as Molly walked past him to set up her flower arranging station. She looked at Sherlock with surprise, which was more than a little confusing. At this point, he wouldn’t think she’d be at all astonished by him arbitrarily ordering her to do anything. 

Molly walked onto the shop floor and settled her props and tools on the table. She had no idea what she was supposed to do to make that man stay. Luckily, at that moment, the women who had RSVP’d for the class walked in and gave her the answer. Time to get started. “Oh good, you are here.”

********

Everyone gathered around a table in the back corner of the flower shop where six small vases waited to be filled with new floral creations. Molly began by talking about the history of using flowers as a secret language, a kind of code that was especially popular during Victorian times. Now, much of the understanding of the meanings behind the flowers had been obscured in favor of blooms that are easy to mass produce and ship around the world to fulfill the whims of people doing their grocery shopping or needing an easy gift for their mum. 

“Once you start considering the symbolism involved, you won’t look at flowers the same way,” said Molly. “So what do you want to say? Take some time to look around the shop and find two flowers that you want to use in your arrangement. Base your choices on their meaning, but also take into account how they will look. Will they fill out the space or will the vase appear too empty?”

With that instruction, Molly turned them loose. It turned out the women were there to celebrate the finalization of the divorce that one of them had recently filed for. Her name was Emma, possibly. Probably. John was having a hard time keeping their names straight. There was Emma, Catherine, Amy, and Amanda. He was pretty sure. Emma was all over the Redbud (betrayal) and Columbine (desertion), whereas Amy and Catherine were more on the love, desire, and undying devotion end of the spectrum. Amanda was studiously observing the flowers and their meanings and coming up firmly in the hopeless romantic camp. 

John was at a loss for what to choose. The women seemed to be having a wonderful time, laughing and joking, examining their options and flirting with John. Even Amy and Catherine, who he was pretty sure were a couple. 

As he wondered if he could still somehow slip out the door unnoticed, John looked up and saw someone walking in his direction. A tall (dark and handsome?) man with dark brown curly hair and an impeccably tailored suit. He recognized him immediately. How could he not? 

John was frozen, desperate to avoid the inevitable. He tried looking everywhere but at the man sweeping toward him as if pretending not to see meant he could avoid appearing like a stalker when really he was just too idiotic to do any further research into the dare that he stubbornly accepted and chose all on his own. The florist would, of course, have a flower shop. And if ever this strange creature were to have a flower shop, this bizarre land of dark, hidden meaning would be it. John would have smacked himself in the forehead if it would not have been too blatant. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose and willed his cheeks not to turn too red before turning toward the voice addressing him. 

“Dr. Watson. Or do you prefer Captain Watson?” the man asked. 

How does he know my name? John wondered. With all the commotion, they had never gotten around to formal introductions. Oh, but of course. John’s name was on the program that evening. He had probably seen John receive his award.

“How about John,” he managed to reply without sounding too harried. Maybe he could get away with not sounding as mortified as he felt. John put on his most assertive, confident demeanor, looked the man straight in the eye and said, “And you are? We met the other night, but I don’t think I got your name.”

The man extended his hand and said, “Sherlock Holmes.” As simple as that. He stared back at John, and his unwavering gaze was terribly disconcerting. John broke eye contact first, searching the shop for something to ease the awkwardness of this second accidental meeting. 

“I’m supposed to be selecting flowers, but I’m afraid I am a bit out of my element here,” John admitted. He didn’t really expect an answer to his unformulated cry for help, but Sherlock provided one anyway. 

“This way,” Sherlock fairly commanded. He turned and walked across the room, skirting displays with an ease that John had trouble following. They reached the other side of the shop where Sherlock came to a stop in front of a cluster of small, orange flowers bearing a sign that read Wallflower. Before John could become too incensed at the potential implications, he read the rest of the card. Fidelity in adversity. Oh, that was perfect, actually. Very nearly the motto of the Royal Army Medical Corps. 

“Brilliant! Oh, that will do quite nicely,” John said looking very pleased as he plucked a couple of stalks from the vase. Sherlock stared for a moment before walking away as abruptly as he had approached. Apparently, awkward meeting time was now officially over. It took John a second to process the abrupt shift in their interaction, confusion evident on his face. Once that recognition clicked, John sheepishly continued looking for his second flower choice, the confidence he had felt moments ago draining away. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock made some cutting comments about the women’s choices. He scoffed at Emma’s selections indicating her spurned lover status, observing that she had been flirting audaciously with John. He suggested some China Aster (ill-fated) and Snapdragon (presumption), and Emma looked alternately furious and a bit terrified.

Molly figured it was time to rein things in before Sherlock infuriated all her students and sent them storming away. It would not be the first time something like that had happened. He was forever making deductions and unearthing the darkness in otherwise outwardly pleasant people. He had a gift for it. People hated him. 

Molly sometimes hated him for his blatant honesty that often tipped over into outright meanness, but his ability to read people was also what made him so successful. Molly could help people craft the stories they already knew they wanted to tell. Sherlock could tell the stories that people hadn’t yet grasped in their conscious minds. His designs had taken the floral industry by storm, much to his chagrin. 

She walked over to where Sherlock was on the brink of disclosing Amanda’s hidden sexual proclivities via plant matter (Grass...submission), and she was not going to let this happen again. Not today. No more Ms. Nice Molly. 

She grabbed Sherlock by the lapel and dragged him away while shooting an apologetic glance toward a relieved-looking Amanda. Sherlock began to protest, but Molly was having none of it. She glared at him in a way that said, “don’t make me slap you again. Not in front of all these people.” Miraculously, he stopped whatever unregulated babble was preparing to spring from his mouth and pursed his lips. He narrowed his eyes but seemingly decided not to make any more of a scene than had already occurred. 

Molly pulled him back into the hallway and basically told him to get lost while he stood there preening, smoothing his lapels and looking over Molly’s head to see if John had noticed. Please don’t let John have noticed. 

John was staring in their direction with a quizzical look on his face. Dammit! John had noticed. Well, there was nothing to be done but try to regain his composure. Molly halfway asked, halfway demanded that he stay out of the front of the shop while she finished her class. Sherlock had learned over the years that it was best not to cross her, so he turned on his heel and stalked down the hallway toward the back office and workroom. As he retreated, he threw an offhand comment over his shoulder, “don’t forget those samples.” 

Molly just shook her head. He always had to get the last word. She turned back toward her class to find them all staring at her with a range of expressions from amusement to confusion to concern. No one said a word. They hardly seemed to be breathing and, as comfortable as Molly was with uncomfortable silences, she knew she was going to have some work ahead of her to get this class back on track. 

******** 

Sherlock stormed into the work room where Billy was putting together an elaborate display that had been ordered for an upcoming funeral service. It was full of white, purple, and black calla lilies along with raven feathers. Quite a sight to behold. 

Full of nervous energy, Sherlock paced back and forth across the room, thinking about his unexpected run-in with the handsome Army doctor. He filed away everything he had observed about the man from his drab jumper to his firm handshake to the way he smiled when Sherlock led him to the perfect flower for his flower arrangement. 

“Billy, I need you to go out there. Keep an eye on things for me,” Sherlock demanded.

“But I need to finish up here. I’m nearly done,” Billy protested. 

"Go make sure Molly has everything she needs to finish her class,” Sherlock directed. “I’ll take care of this.”

Billy reluctantly gave in and walked toward the front of the shop. Sherlock continued his pacing and did not actually finish the funereal display. 

********

“It looks like you’ve found your flowers,” Molly said, “so let’s move along to the fun part.” She hoped she could make this fun for them. She really wanted people to enjoy her class, although it certainly would have been easier to relinquish control to the chaos and confusion Sherlock left in his wake. 

Molly led them through the finer points of creating a visually pleasing arrangement with the flowers they had selected. Well, she tried to while studiously ignoring all the side-eyeing and snarky comments from the attendees. John couldn’t help himself; he had to know. He asked conspiratorially, “is he always like that?” 

Molly pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Sherlock, oh he’s just...well, Sherlock,” Molly said dismissively, at a loss for what to say. She really couldn’t defend his rudeness but, in her experience, it’s just the way he was. Molly did her best to bring the focus back to the task at hand and was grateful when John dropped that line of questioning. 

As they settled in to work on their individual arrangements, John thought it safe to fall back into small talk mode. “So, Molly, what is it you do?” John asked. “I mean, other than teach these classes.”

“Um, actually, I’m a medical examiner,” Molly said, a little sheepishly. 

“You mean you work…” John couldn’t seem to find his way to the end of that sentence.

“...in a morgue.” Molly supplied for him. “This is quite a nice diversion. It’s good to spend time with living people every now and again.”

“Even if those living people are insensitive arseholes?” asked Emma, who, rather than sticking with her original choices, had opted for Tansy (I declare war against you) and Lobelia (Malevolence).

“He is definitely an acquired taste,” Molly said hastily, hoping that they could go back to focusing on the flowers. “The flowers are nice, too. I don’t see many of those in the morgue. They usually come either before or after I’ve examined my patients,” she laughed, as though it were some sort of lighthearted joke.

John reconsidered all of his instincts, firmly convinced that he had tumbled through some rabbit hole to a twisted alternative world. As if this place could read his thoughts, a younger man, tall and gangly with dark circles under his eyes walked in from the back room. He awkwardly skirted around the floor, straightening displays or possibly putting them into more disarray than before. 

“Billy, what are you doing here?” asked Molly, knowing exactly what he was doing and who had put him up to it. 

“Just keeping an eye on things, miss,” Billy said, deferentially. “Making sure you have everything you need.”

Molly tried to ignore him, but it was harder for the others as he lurked around the shop trying to make himself useful and failing spectacularly. John decided to fully commit to the absurdity of the day, so he asked Billy, “and what do you do here?”

Billy shuffled by with a vase of flowers and said, “I keep an eye on things. Run the shop and all.”

“Oh, I thought this was Sherlock’s flower shop,” John said with a hint of surprise in his voice. 

“It is. But I’ll get it when he dies,” Billy stated, as simply as if he was reporting that the sky was blue. 

“Wrong,” came the reply from the hallway. 

“Well, I do help out a bit,” Billy said in his own defense. 

“You do have quite a knack for poisonous and addictive substances,” Sherlock said derisively as he strode back onto the shop floor.

Molly figured it was time to wrap things up. Nothing good would come from this scene. She thanked everyone for attending the class and did her best to herd them out the door before Sherlock could wreak any more havoc. Unfortunately, it was not before Emma slipped John a piece of paper and said, “call me sometime?” 

John took the paper and smiled at her. It had been quite a while since a woman had given him her number. He used to be quite good at this game. He put a flirting tone into his voice and said, “Maybe I will.” Emma turned to go and said, “Please do.”

John stared after her for a moment before gathering up his jacket and his flowers. Sherlock being Sherlock used that moment to comment on something that was entirely none of his business. 

“You would have done better to get the timid one’s number, the hopeless romantic. What was her name?” Sherlock asked without really caring for an answer. “She would have suited you better than being a rebound for an unrepentant narcissist who’s irreconcilable differences were more one-sided than she would lead you to believe.”

“So you give dating advice, too?” John shot back giving Sherlock a sharp glance, not quite believing he was hearing this correctly. Sherlock just shrugged and walked back toward the office. 

“Nice meeting you, too.” John yelled after him. John turned toward Molly and thanked her for the class, then walked out the door content to never have that experience again in his lifetime.


	4. Chapter 4

John was halfway home before the strangeness of the situation wore off and he recognized that the floral arrangement he clutched in one arm paired with his fairly pronounced limp caused more than a few curious looks in his direction. He pushed the self-consciousness away and hurried back to his flat as quickly as he could. He certainly had something to write about now, he thought as he made his way through the bustling London streets. He would show Ella. He was sure of it.

He was so sure until he actually got home and sat down in front of his laptop to record the story of his flower arranging adventure. More like misadventure, he thought sulkily, willing the words to come but feeling at a loss to even begin describing the day. 

Okay, start with the basics, he thought. He wrote about how his therapist put him up to it and how he was pretty sure it had been rigged from the start. About how Molly was a perfectly lovely teacher, even if she did have an unconventional career and an obscure hobby involving coded communications. He mentioned the stunning impact of his first glimpse of the flower shop, of how the flowers were nothing like ones he had ever before seen. 

“Here’s where things took a turn for the truly strange,” John continued, unsure what he really wanted to say at this point. He could just leave it at a simple description of Molly’s class. He had learned a few things about the language of flowers, about caring for cut flowers, about volume and spacing and color schemes. But that wasn’t the most interesting part of the story, was it? No, definitely not.

He charged ahead. Who was going to read this anyway? The privacy settings for his blog were locked down so that it wouldn’t come up in search engine results, so only people who were actively looking for it could find it. That would leave his sister, an old med school mate, some of his army buddies, and his therapist. He was sure none of them except for the latter were actually interested in seeking out whatever he wrote. 

John described the mysterious man he had met at the military ball who’s flower shop he had inadvertently wandered into a week later. How Sherlock had walked over to him with the confidence and grace of a big cat stalking prey. No, strike that. He did have this look to him, though, like he was assessing every aspect of your life history with just a glance. That was not an overstatement. 

He had given John a very astute suggestion for his flower selection, one that connected with the strongly held sense of loyalty and duty that led him to military service in the first place. But then he did that weird thing where he abruptly walked away as though the conversation never existed. It was incredibly disconcerting, but John imagined he knew that and used it to his advantage. 

Incredibly rude, that one. John couldn’t figure out what Sherlock’s deal was. He appeared to fancy himself a detective, but John could speak from first hand experience that his deductions were neither asked for nor particularly appreciated. Mostly, Sherlock came across as abrasive, petulant, and sarcastic with a morbid sensibility, although he did display impeccable fashion sense. 

“Unless you enjoy having your innermost secrets picked apart without saying a word and being embarrassed in front of complete strangers, I would recommend that you stay far away from Oleander’s,” John wrote in conclusion. “Next time, I’ll stick with knitting bird nests.”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper where Emma had written her number. Strange for a man he had barely met to feel the need to comment on the propriety or perceived potential for success in his dating life. And what was it about John that made Sherlock assume Emma would be an unfit match? John was just thrilled to have gotten a phone number. He had not had much luck meeting women since he returned from the war, so he wasn’t about to be too picky. Recent divorcee or not. 

He still needed a title. How about Memento Mori? That somehow seemed to encapsulate the day and the many times he had wished for death to save him from mortification. John gave the post one last read through, still feeling as though no one would care but pleased with his narration of events nonetheless. This would get Ella off his case and he had to admit that, bizarre as his day had been, maybe there was something to having new experiences and getting out of the house for something other than going to work or to Tesco to pick up the groceries. 

Which reminded him, he had practically nothing to eat. His refrigerator and cupboards were the textbook definition of bachelor pad. Satisfied with his writing efforts, he pressed publish and then went to inventory the edible items in his kitchen. He came away with a bag of rice, a box of pasta, and a banana. John peeled the banana and ate it while making his grocery list.

********

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief once the group of giggling, flirty women had left the flower shop. Tedious. John had gone, too, and he seemed somewhat peeved when he left. It was probably for the best, though. Distraction, that’s all it was. 

Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts by a voice saying, “You don’t always have to be so mean, you know. These people are coming to your shop; they are interested in what you do or at least the beautiful flowers. You could try to appreciate them rather than sending them running out the door either crying or in a rage. Sometimes both,” Molly chastised softly. 

“Are you done here?” was all Sherlock said in reply. He certainly was ready to be done with this interaction. 

“Yes, I’m done,” she said with a heavy sigh, all too used to being brushed aside. “I’ll just grab my things.” 

While she was gathering her belongings, Sherlock wandered over to the table where Molly’s floral arrangement sat. She was good at what she did, he had to give her that. Her designs were sometimes full of brilliant color, other times subtle and understated. She grasped the communicative aspect beautifully, and her designs had moved from timid hope to unrequited longing to something along the lines of subtle threats and entreaties. 

He liked that last bit the best and tried to divine the meaning from today’s offering. It seemed to be something along the lines of “you blind, bloody fool.” Who could that possibly be meant for? Was she doing the hypercritical, self-loathing thing again? Was it for poor John Watson who was obviously being taken in by that black widow of a divorcee? Molly was always so concerned about others. 

Whatever it was, he could not be bothered at the moment. Molly had shrugged into her coat and rushed past him. Feeling disinclined to deal with any more customers, Sherlock locked the door behind her and told Billy to use the fire escape exit when he needed to leave after finishing up with that ostentatious display of afterlife drama. Sherlock grabbed his newspaper and walked upstairs to his flat. 

He hoped that Molly would have those tissue samples available for him soon. He texted her to make sure she’d remember. “Tissue samples. Military murder. Don’t forget. -SH” Until he had those samples in his possession, it was all conjecture and he had to rely on the unreliable information gathered by those morons at the newspapers. Why hadn’t Scotland Yard reached out to ask for help with these cases? They were always in over their heads and this case was surely no exception. It was clearly his area of expertise, seeing as how he had spent much of his life studying poisonous plants and had gone on to earn a degree in biochemistry with a specialization in phytotoxicology. Really, they were foolish for not requesting his assistance sooner. 

He shot off a text requesting access to whatever information they had on the case. Well, requesting was a polite way to put it. Most people would probably say he was demanding. Semantics.

********

Sherlock passed the day anxiously checking his phone every few moments waiting for someone to text him back. They never responded fast enough. He tried to occupy himself by coming up with a new experiment to document on his blog, but he was feeling uninspired. So he grabbed his coat and scarf and climbed up to the roof. 

His personal rooftop garden was his private joy, which was probably for the best because most people would not understand his fascination with dangerous, deadly, or downright disgusting plants. People already hardly understood how such a disagreeable man could know so much about their inner emotional state and translate that so easily into a bouquet. The plants in this garden were the well-curated result of childhood fascination and botanist parents who were too self-absorbed to show love through any other means than by returning from their travels with exotic trophies. 

He strolled the planter beds, developing a list of the most likely poisons that could be used in this current string of murders. Certainly not ricin, which was derived from the seeds of the castor bean. It was not nearly a gory enough death for that monstrous poison. The victims did not present with vomiting, so he was ready to rule out strychnine, as well. It could potentially be monkshood or something from the Solanaceae family such as henbane, belladonna, or mandrake. From the limited information available, it was nearly impossible to tell exactly which one it was.

As he pondered the options, Sherlock walked over to the home he had built along the south facing wall for solitary bees. Wooden dowels and masonry with cracks wide enough for bees to build a home for only themselves. Sherlock appreciated their independence, their self-sufficiency. He also figured it wouldn’t do to have honeybees collecting poisonous pollen into toxic honey. 

He sat on the chair he had arranged in the corner of the garden, watching the bees fly in and out. It was soothing to focus on something so simple when his mind was whirring with crime and intrigue and nagging thoughts of John Watson. Those were the most troublesome because he had sworn off romantic entanglements long ago. They made people stupid, complacent, open to irrational feelings of devastation. They were not at all conducive to thinking and living a productive life of the mind. 

It had been such a long time since anyone had even caught his eye, so why now? Why this awkward, angry, little man with the psychosomatic limp and strong sense of moral duty? This was utterly inconvenient. 

Sherlock sat until the sun began to set and the last bees returned home. Until his tumultuous thoughts had come to some semblance of order. Maybe if he made his way back downstairs there would be some news. Something to focus on other than his own tiresome desires that he did his best to leave unacknowledged. Desire was weakness; desire was dangerous. A lesson he learned early in life. If you loved something, it could be taken away, withheld with you left wanting. 

He returned to the flat and found a text from Lestrade, not necessarily encouraging him to get involved with the case, but knowing better than to try to deter him at this point. Lestrade’s resigned acceptance when Sherlock texted him back was all the invitation he needed.

********

Sherlock spent much of the next day pouring over the evidence the police had collected to this point, trying to piece together a better idea of motive or method or anything to get a handle on this case. As he was reaching the end of his patience, he received a text from Molly. She was at the morgue and he could come by in an hour to pick up the tissue samples he had requested. Well, she said “demanded”. Thankfully, she had stopped with the tedium of reminding him that she could get fired for this, and that it was really, really illegal. 

It was like Christmas! He loved this part of a case. The new mystery, the gathering of clues, piecing together the puzzle laid down by someone who was trying their best to stay one step ahead of you. And this was shaping up to be a good one. The perpetrator was rather clever, leaving a vague sense of motive and victim profile, using a seemingly undetectable poison to incapacitate the victim until it was too late and the symptoms took a turn for the fatal. It was enough to create a vague sense of fear in the wider London community. Enough to keep the papers and news channels invested in perpetrating that free-floating anxiety. Whoever this was seemed to have the news cycle timed like a science.

A few hours in the lab at Barts proved Sherlock’s initial instinct true. This veteran was poisoned using an alkaloid toxin. It appeared to be indicative of the aggressive and belligerent effects of the nightshade family, although he still did not have enough evidence to pinpoint the exact botanical culprit. The crime scene investigators had done an appalling job of analyzing the scene where shards of glass and mirror were scattered everywhere in the room in which they had found the body. While it may have appeared that he bled to death from lacerations on his arms incurred from the breaking glass, Molly assured Sherlock that the cause of death was severe heart arrhythmia. 

Sherlock texted Lestrade requesting access to the crime scene for the following day, as much good as that would do considering the incompetence of Anderson and his crew. He figured he had exhausted his leads at the hospital, so it was time to head home. He probably would not hear back from Lestrade anyway considering it was heading on three in the morning, so he put his phone in his pocket, grabbed a cab and headed back to Baker Street. He climbed the steps to his flat and willed himself to want to sleep, to do something so-called normal for once, but the case was still weighing heavily on his mind and he did not imagine he would be sleeping any time soon. 

********

Sherlock removed his scarf and coat as he entered the flat and settled in at his laptop. He had every intention of delving more deeply into the murdered man’s background but as he began typing, his browser wanted to autofill the URL for John’s blog. He had checked it once since the first time he had found it empty (okay, maybe more than once), but all that had been posted in the ensuing week was a fairly snarky piece about how John prefers his tea and toast. It had ended with the words “So there,” and Sherlock was pretty sure he had been put up to this whole blogging lark by someone else. Probably his therapist. Possibly his mother? Mothers liked that kind of thing, right? Being able to keep up with the goings on in the lives of their children? Well, maybe some mothers liked that sort of thing. Sherlock was pretty sure his mother had never bothered to read his blog. 

He figured it was a bad idea, but since when had bad ideas deterred him? He clicked on the URL, pressed enter, and look at that! Memento Mori. Hmmm, interesting. Sherlock had fully expected that John would never post anything else to his blog after reading that first post. If he was being honest, he kind of wished that was the case. Then, he would eventually stop checking and would forget about this Captain/Doctor John Watson altogether. But that's not what was happening here. 

Sherlock clicked on the blog post and started reading. As he assumed from the dreadfully obvious title, it was about John’s outing to the flower shop. Which was great because Sherlock remained entirely unclear on what had brought him to Oleander’s in the first place. He had been sure that was the last place he would run into John Watson again. 

Apparently, this was another action instigated by John’s therapist. What sort of therapist would send anyone his way? Maybe one who wanted to ensure that her clients stayed in therapy? Sherlock applauded her Machiavellian tactics, if that was the case. 

He continued reading, flowers and communication. Blah blah. Molly was lovely. Yes, everyone seemed to love Molly. Billy was a drug addict? Oh, was John that perceptive? Well, he was not entirely correct, since Billy had cleaned himself up to come to work in the flower shop, but he certainly was a gifted chemist in his own right. Oh, wait, maybe Sherlock had let that part slip during the class. 

John’s prosaic writing style was not terribly engaging. That was, until Sherlock got to the part that certainly grabbed his attention: the part about him. John did not go into too much detail about how they met the weekend prior, but he did talk about Sherlock’s graceful demeanor and how perceptive he was. Sherlock paused for a moment remembering the reaction John gave to his wallflower suggestion. “Brilliant,” he had exclaimed and smiled so brightly that Sherlock could not help feeling pleased with himself. He had not really known what to do from there, though. That interaction seemed to have gone as well as it possibly could have, so he had turned on heel and left. 

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to do, as he was now learning. It made John feel awkward, as though Sherlock had not heard that particular piece of feedback enough in his lifetime. And really John? Now you want to talk about your feelings? Well, at least your therapist will be pleased. She’ll probably think you are making some progress for once, Sherlock thought. 

Sherlock became more agitated the further he read. According to John, Sherlock was “spectacularly abrasive” and “probably not a very good boss”. An offended look crossed his face at the first conjecture, but he wiped it away upon reading the second. That is fine. Possibly a fair assessment. He did not really want to be anyone’s boss; he just needed people to keep things running in the shop. And since when did he care what anyone thought of him?

John continued on and on about Sherlock, and now Sherlock was having to confront the fact that this tiny, handsome, Army doctor was probably not a very nice person and was very, very angry. Sherlock had deduced that last bit and was generally not surprised when he elicited that reaction in other people, but the next sentence pushed him over the edge. “Unless you enjoy having your innermost secrets picked apart without saying a word and being embarrassed in front of complete strangers, I would recommend that you stay far away from Oleander’s.” 

Sherlock was furious. He slammed his laptop shut and rushed downstairs to the flower shop. Who cares that it was 4:30am? He had a message to send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's lots of Sherlock being internal in this chapter, I know. We'll get back to John's point of view next week.


	5. Chapter 5

Monday morning and John was running late for his shift at the clinic. He had been distracted by the news in the papers about the murder of another veteran. This was getting a little too close to home for his liking, and he could not deny that he had spent some time wondering how to avoid becoming the next victim. “Well, don’t take poison, obviously,” he thought with some irritation when he found himself heading too far down the path of generalized anxiety. As though he didn't have enough of that stemming from his nightmares and unease with his current civilian life. 

He rushed through the front door of the clinic, lobbing apologies toward his fellow doctors, nurses, and office staff. It was only when he noticed the waiting room full of patients staring in his direction that he slowed down and tried to put on an air of normalcy. Nothing to see here. He walked into his office, closed the door and leaned back against it. He was going to have to pull himself together. No one wanted a frantic man with a limp and an intermittent tremor doing their throat culture or prostate exam. Deep breaths. 

The whole of his boring life stretched out before him, kind of the opposite of his life flashing before his eyes, of the searing pain and panic of blood loss from a bullet tearing through his shoulder. He sometimes didn’t know which fate was worse. The neverending tedium of school physicals or bleeding to death in some sand waste overseas. No matter, this was the fate he had found. Tedium it was, then.

********

Just about lunchtime, a knock came on John’s office door. He figured it was time for one more patient before he took a break. However, when he opened the door he saw Peggy, the receptionist, holding what appeared to be a bouquet of flowers in her hand. This was...unexpected. 

I really hope these aren’t from Peggy or this is about to get really uncomfortable, John thought. He had tried office romance before and it had not gone off so well. In fact, it had been in this same office and Sarah was now cordial but nothing more. John didn’t really think he could handle more of that particular kind of drama. 

He tried to cover the confused thoughts swirling inside of him and plastered a smile on his face as Peggy shoved the flowers in his direction. “These were delivered for you,” she said. Okay, so not from Peggy. 

“Who are they from?” John asked.

“I don’t know,” said Peggy. “A man dropped them off at the front desk. Said they were for you.”

“A man? When?” John asked.

“Just now. He just left,” came Peggy’s reply before she was shoved out of the way by John sprinting toward the front door clutching the ornate bouquet of flowers. He ran out onto the landing frantically craning his head, searching for the person who could have dropped off the bouquet. The only person he could think of who would create a bouquet quite like this one. 

Why, though? Why now? Why does this look like a bouquet sent to someone who might become the target of a mob hit? John gave up his search and leaned against the railing. He examined the flowers as if they would be able to tell him the story of how he ended up here, but he found that after just one class he was not yet fluent in this new language. As he walked back inside, John noticed that there were still a handful of patients in the waiting room. He wished for the power of invisibility as he headed back to his office, but even invisibility would not have kept him from seeing his coworkers whispering behind the front counter and in one of the exam rooms. 

Wishing this day would just end soon, John closed the door on his office, laid the bouquet down on his desk and noticed that there was a card attached. More like hidden inside the copious amounts of black floral paper and ribbon that the flowers were wrapped in. It had the Oleander’s logo on the front and read as follows:

Peony (Anger)  
Lavender (Mistrust)  
Begonia (Caution)

I leave you to your deductions. -SH

What the bloody hell was this all about? John figured the stranger he had come to know as Sherlock Holmes likely had a flair for the dramatic. Seriously, that coat? But he was at a loss for figuring out what could have prompted this action. They had not exactly parted on excellent terms after the flower arranging class, what with Sherlock commenting on his potential dating life. If anyone should be irritated, it would be John. At least he was not prone to acting out like a demented stalker, even if circumstances had led him to appear like one. John craved more excitement in his life, but he did not relish the thought of having to take out a restraining order against a mad florist. 

Sure, John had gone home and taken great pleasure in writing a snarky blog post on his experience, focusing especially on the baffling behavior of one Sherlock Holmes, who’s own blog was utter rubbish, as it were. Who really cared about the chemical breakdown of leading brands of perfume? 

Actually, John wished that he hadn’t bothered looking for more information about Sherlock. He was going to have a really hard time enjoying the scent of synthetic chemicals, musk, and other “secretions from the anal glands of a variety of mammals” sprayed on a woman’s skin from here on out. 

But there was no way Sherlock could have read his blog, was there? John turned to his computer and pulled up his blog statistics. Strangely enough, it appeared someone had read his post, but there was no way of telling who it was. They didn’t leave a comment, whoever they were. It was probably just Harry; she was always up at ungodly hours so maybe she was surfing the internet at 4am and felt the urge to check up on him. It was somewhat laughable, Harry thinking about anyone other than herself, but it put John’s mind at ease just a bit. 

No point in worrying about this any longer. John set the flowers on the shelf behind his desk, low enough that no one would notice and comment on them. Except that every person who came by his office that afternoon, patient, nurse, or office staff, saw and commented on the bouquet of flowers. One of the nurses brought over a vase with some water so the flowers would last longer. “They are so extraordinary! This arrangement is stunning,” she said by way of explanation as to why John should consider keeping them around any longer than absolutely necessary. 

By the end of the day, all John wanted to do was get home, have a drink, sit on his couch in front of some some crap telly, and go to bed. He was looking forward to expending minimal effort on getting through the rest of this god forsaken day.

********

As he approached his flat, John noticed the tall, narrow box resting against the door. Strange. He hadn’t ordered anything recently. He crouched down to pick up the box and fumbled with his keys before pushing into the entryway. He turned on the light in the living room and inspected the box. There was no return address but his address was typed on a label affixed to the box. He lifted the top off and his heart sank. He was pretty sure that if he never saw another bouquet of flowers in his life, much less had one sent to him, he would be content. Unfortunately, here was another bouquet of flowers. This time a simple gathering of roses, long-stemmed, in an array of shades from holly berry to deep burgundy. 

They were beautiful. Actually, they were everything John would have wished for when he received his first unexpected bouquet of the day. Tasteful. Traditional. But in this case, everything felt wrong. John could feel the anger propelling him into action as he slammed the top onto the box and rushed back out into the night. He finally flagged down a cab and got inside. “Take me to Oleander’s flower shop,” John commanded. 

Once they arrived, John threw money at the driver and stumbled out of the cab in his haste. He stormed up to the front door of the flower shop and tried the handle. It was locked, which made sense given that it was almost 8pm but lights were still on inside, so he pounded on the door. John was standing on a London street, righteously angry, clutching a box filled with a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, pounding incessantly on a locked door, and shouting. 

Wait, was he shouting? Yes, he was. He had not realized that was the case, but the realization did not make any difference at this point. He needed to show this bloody maniac that he was not going to play this game.

John saw some movement inside the shop and recognized Billy ducking down the hallway toward the back of the building. He was not about to be ignored, so he pounded on the door harder. He shouted louder. He considered finding an alternative entrance to pound on and shout at. Luckily, before that happened, Billy came back to the front of the shop. He somewhat warily made his way to the door, unlocked it, and swung it open. John grabbed the door and threw it wide. “Where is he?” John asked, switching from shouting at the top of his lungs to a forceful, deadly whisper.

“Who’s that?” Billy asked, but John was in no mood for him playing dumb. 

“You know exactly who,” John said in his best if-you-don’t-comply-I-will-sprain-you voice. 

“He’s in the back, in the office,” Billy replied in a petulant tone. He moved out of the way just in time for John to rush past him, jostling flower displays with the box of roses. 

John stormed down the hallway and directly into the office where he found Sherlock, all fancy suit and messy curls, sitting in a chair with his fingers steepled in front of his chin. He hardly looked surprised to see John charging in all short of breath and practically breathing fire. 

“Ah, John. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Sherlock asked in his droll tone. 

“Do you find this amusing?” John asked. Sherlock simply stared at him with a look of measured disinterest. They remained locked in silent glaring for longer than was strictly comfortable within the confines of normal social interaction.

“Do you really not know how conversation works? You are supposed to say something,” John prompted, because really? This man was going to make John’s social graces appear refined? 

“I certainly comprehend the structure of typical human communication patterns. However, I have little use for them,” Sherlock said with a tone that reinforced his disinterest. “I assume you have a reason for barging in here all red-faced and angry out of proportion to the message I sent you,” Sherlock continued. “What's in that box, by the way.”

“What’s in the box?” John huffed a menacing laugh. “Like you don’t know.” 

John slammed the box on the desk in front of Sherlock, not caring for the piles of paper he was disturbing or knocking to the floor. Sherlock took note of John’s address before he lifted the top to find the box full of long-stemmed red roses. “Boring,” he said out of habit. Roses were so cliche as to be yawn-worthy. He almost imagined he could see John’s blood boiling from his dismissive analysis. Then, something clicked and Sherlock became much more animated. “Wait! Where did these come from?” Sherlock demanded.

“Where did they come from?” John asked perplexed. “Where else would they come from? You’re the only florist I know. The only one sending thinly-veiled threats in bouquet form,” John accused. 

“It is true that I sent you a bouquet earlier today, and it’s true that it may have been somewhat menacing, but think, John. There is nothing artful about this bouquet of roses. It’s obvious this is not from me,” Sherlock continued, making John angrier. “When did you find this box, and, more importantly, where?”

“It was on my doorstep when I arrived home from work.” 

“And then what. You opened the box and then what?”

“And then I rushed right back out the door to confront the maniac stalker florist who keeps threatening me through bouquets,” John shot back snarkily.

“Did you touch the flowers at all?” Sherlock continued.

“What does that matter?” John asked, perplexed.

“Just answer the question. Did you touch the flowers?”

“No. I put the top back on the box as soon as I saw them.” John stated.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in your flat? Anything other than an unexpected bunch of roses on your doorstep. Most people would be thrilled with that surprise, by the way,” Sherlock continued. 

“Thrilled?” John gritted out, then thought back to his time inside the flat. Everything had focused down to that box on the table, his anger, and the need to put a stop to these unanticipated bouquets. He had not looked around the rest of the flat. “I didn’t notice anything wrong, but I’d barely walked in the door,” John said.

Sherlock picked up his cell phone and started texting. “There’s a man you need to meet. Take me to your flat.”


	6. Chapter 6

With a few more statements of angry disbelief from John, they were in a cab on the way to John’s flat. They pulled up to find police cars out front and officers walking in and out of his front door. 

“What's going on? You didn’t tell me you were calling the police,” John said. 

“You didn’t ask,” Sherlock stated as he swept past John and into the throng of investigative activity. 

John stood for a moment, stunned and disbelieving, before rushing after Sherlock. “Yes, I did. I did ask. You just decided to play silent.” Infuriatingly silent, if John was being honest. 

Sherlock remained silent until he found the man he was looking for. “Lestrade, what have you found?”

“Not much,” Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, making a sound that Lestrade had long since come to understand as something along the lines of “unsurprising”. Then, he looked past Sherlock at John. “Who’s this?”

“This is Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” Sherlock began. “He…”

“I live here!” John exclaimed, his anger and confusion boiling over again. 

Lestrade and Sherlock shot him a stunned look.

“He does live here,” Sherlock continued. “What I was going to say is that he is the next veteran to be poisoned.” 

John felt a chill run through him at that explanation. Sure, he had worried while reading the newspaper and watching the news reports on the television, but it was not actually supposed to happen to him. 

Lestrade just looked concerned. “You sure he hasn’t been poisoned already? He is a bit belligerent.” 

Sherlock looked at John, assessing, and then turned back to Lestrade. “No, it’s just the way he is,” Sherlock assured him.

“Hey!” John exclaimed. “It’s not like I don’t have reason to be angry. This bloody wanker has been threatening me with floral arrangements.” 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade chastised while throwing a concerned look in Sherlock’s direction. 

“Let’s focus on the case, shall we?” Sherlock said, deflecting attention in an effort to avoid discussing his more impetuous impulses with Lestrade.

Lestrade had known Sherlock long enough to know not to push his luck, but he filed away this information along with the way Sherlock looked at John. 

They all walked further into the flat where the forensics team was dusting for prints, searching for traces of deadly poison, and generally making a mess of everything they touched. And to think, they yelled so vociferously when Sherlock simply came in to observe a crime scene. 

Sherlock scanned the flat, imagining where a murderer would hide poison. The effects were quick-acting and lethal which would suggest an ingested poison. That or something injected into the bloodstream. The roses were a nice diversionary tactic, but that was much too unreliable to be the method of transmission. It’s not like you could ensure someone would prick themselves with the thorns. 

“You can’t stay here tonight,” Sherlock said offhandedly. 

“What?” John needed a moment for that statement to sink in. 

“You heard what I said,” Sherlock stated. “This is a crime scene, or at least it will be once these imbeciles find where the poison was hidden. And if they don’t find it, you eventually will. Do you want to become the next news story? It’s up to you.”

John stood staring, attention split between the bustle of people in his kitchen and this man he barely knew who seemed to know everything about everyone around him with just a glance. 

“Where else am I supposed to go?” John asked. He tried to maintain the air of irritation that had carried him through the evening so far, but it was slipping away in favor of an actual feeling of trepidation. As much as he had hoped for some excitement, now his own home was not safe and he had to figure out what he was going to do. 

He could not really afford to put himself up in a hotel for any length of time, and there was no way in hell he was going to ask Harry if he could stay with her. As he racked his brain for ideas, the man standing next to him made an outrageous proposition. 

“You could stay at my place,” Sherlock said quietly, trying to make it so not everyone in the flat would overhear their conversation.

“What???” John yelped, and now everyone who had not been paying attention before focused in on the two men in the kitchen doorway. John looked a little sheepish once he recognized the attention his outburst had drawn. He tried to forget about everyone else in his flat as he leaned in toward Sherlock and whispered, “You want me to move in with you?”

“Who said anything about moving in?” Sherlock asked in a tone that refused to match John’s conspiratorial whisper. “I am simply offering you a place to stay. I have an extra bedroom in my flat. Relatively safe and free from poison, if you can avoid chewing on the plants.”

John considered the offer for a moment. He was skeptical, but what other options did he have? “But we don’t know anything about each other,” John said, as though that mattered at this point. 

“I think we know enough to be going on. You are an Army doctor who was wounded in action and has a psychosomatic limp and a therapist who gives terrible advice. I am a 'mad stalker florist', as you so eloquently put it, who solves crimes in order to keep myself from actually going mad,” said Sherlock as though that settled it.

John was pretty sure he had gone mad himself, but there was no use in arguing now. He sighed and made off toward the bedroom to gather some things to take with him, dodging the police who were still milling around looking for a stash of poison, if there even was one to be found. 

Maybe he had a secret admirer? One who actually wanted to send a message of romantic intent instead of whatever that other bouquet had been. That seemed like a potential explanation for a few moments, a pleasant diversion from the situation at hand, but that explanation evaporated as soon as John opened his medicine cabinet. 

Something was wrong. He could feel it before it registered consciously. John stood, hand comically suspended halfway toward his toothbrush as he processed this situation. Then, he snatched his hand back and called Sherlock’s name. 

Sherlock had been hanging about in the living room overseeing the operations of the investigators and scoffing internally. Lestrade was a moderately intelligent human being but he was wasted on this incompetent team. How were they ever going to solve this case if they did not even know what they were looking for? His reverie was broken when he heard John yelling his name. 

Sherlock rushed toward his voice. “What is it?” he asked because, out of the numerous deductions swirling around his brain based on the contents of John’s medicine cabinet, none was standing out.

“I realize this is going to sound a bit obsessive compulsive, but my toothbrush...it...there's...something's wrong,” John said in a quiet voice. 

Sherlock put on one of his gloves and picked up the toothbrush. He pulled a vial from his coat pocket and rubbed the bristles across the top, releasing a fine powder. He then called for Lestrade who came rushing down the hall and into the rapidly crowding bathroom. Sherlock shoved the toothbrush in Lestrade’s direction, indicating that their work here was done and none of that work had actually been done by a member of his team. 

While the police refocused their efforts, Sherlock herded John and his mostly packed overnight bag toward the front door. There was nothing more to be done here, so they made their way out to the street. 

Sherlock waived down a taxi with an ease John could only dream about. John climbed in and sat with his bag on his lap, silently, maybe a little sullen. He was still processing the events of that evening and slowly realizing that he was now going home with the man he had been threatening earlier in the day. The man he had felt vaguely threatened by had not only saved him from becoming next in a line of serial poisoning victims, but had offered him a safe place to stay while his home was turned upside down by the police. 

John could not quite pinpoint what it was that made him feel he could trust Sherlock, but at least he felt he could take him in a fight, if necessary. Tall, skinny thing that he was. 

John shifted slightly and felt the reassuring weight of the gun in his coat pocket. Thankfully, he had been able to grab it before the police decided to ransack his bedroom. The fewer people who knew about that, the better. 

********

Sherlock sat in the cab with his hands in his coat pockets. He could feel John looking at him from across the cab, clutching his overnight bag on his lap and feeling a sense of security due to the weight of the gun in his pocket. The gun that he thought Sherlock didn’t know about. Silly man.

He pressed send on the text he had been composing and sat still, pretending to contemplate the world rushing by outside while organizing all of the information he had gathered over the course of the night. Partially about the case, mostly about John.

The cab pulled to a stop, and John opened the door and stepped out, surprised to see they were in familiar surroundings. He turned around as Sherlock stepped out of the cab and asked the most obvious, unconsidered, off-the-top-of-his-head question possible: “Why are we at the flower shop?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. Not a deductive genius, this one, he thought. He pulled out his keys and walked up the steps next door to the flower shop entrance. “Because I live upstairs,” Sherlock drawled, opening the door which read 221B. He walked inside and climbed the stairs to his flat, waiting for John to follow. 

John's limp, though less pronounced was still noticeable and he took more care than was strictly necessary to make it upstairs. Interesting. This would require further study. John had appeared perfectly steady when he had stormed into the office earlier, and he hadn’t wavered during the hunt for the hidden poison at his flat. Now that the stress was not immediately evident, however, his limp had returned. Sherlock couldn't help but imagine he could assist with that aspect of John’s recovery. He could stir up any number of dangerous and stressful situations. It was actually his preferred way of being. 

********

Once John made it to the landing, Sherlock smiled down at him and flung the door open dramatically. Really, what wasn’t dramatic about this man? Before he could put too much more thought into how this really was not the best idea, John followed him through the doorway. He was greeted by a sitting room cluttered with all manner of potted plants and boxes of papers, bookshelves, two chairs, a couch, a desk completely covered in untidy stacks of paper, a bat preserved behind glass on the mantle over the fireplace, and was that a human skull? 

What have I gotten myself into? John asked himself silently. “Looks cozy,” is what he said out loud with what he was sure was a very awkward smile on his face. 

“Yes, I think so,” Sherlock said proudly, then he got a good look at John’s face and said, “of course, I could tidy up a little,” as he began to do just that. Or some approximation of that. He picked up a plant from the coffee table and set it on top of a pile of magazines by the entryway, hopefully before John could get a good look at them. Then, he moved papers from one seemingly disorganized pile to another. He could at least move some of his plants to other locations; maybe some could go to the greenhouse in his garden.

John stood in the doorway looking around, clutching the strap of his bag and looking out of his depth until he decided to drum up his confidence and take charge of the situation. He walked over to the overstuffed red armchair, dropped his bag and sat down, doing that thing that people always tell others to do and make themselves at home. John looked around a little more, taking in his surroundings before saying, “I looked you up on the internet. The Science of Deduction.” 

Oh, this was good! Sherlock turned away from straightening the paper piles on his desk to beam over at John. “So what did you think?” 

John just gave him a look. A very judgmental one if Sherlock had anything to say about it, all raised eyebrow and do-you-think-anyone-actually-enjoys-your-blog face. 

Sherlock’s smile crumbled and he blurted out, “well, it’s not like your blog is any better. I at least have factual, useful information on mine.” Ooops, wait! Maybe he was not supposed to say anything about that. You know, since John’s blog was not supposed to be easily accessible to the general public. Dammit, Sherlock!

“What?” John asked in a deathly quiet tone that was actually quite terrifying. He was still sitting in the armchair, but his left hand clenched involuntarily. It added quite nicely to his terrifying air. 

Sherlock knew he had been caught. There was nothing to do but confess to his own cyberstalking, but he stood frozen for a moment. 

“What was that you said, Sherlock?” John asked in an authoritative tone that seemed to indicate that he really expected an answer this time, or else.

“I read your blog,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, but how? It's set to private. It’s not searchable on the internet,” John said. 

“Well, you’re right about one part of that. But your privacy settings are rubbish. Discouraging search engines from listing your blog doesn’t mean it can’t be found,” Sherlock retorted with as much snarky indifference as he could muster. It was really quite a lot most days. And if this was going to be a deal breaker for John, better to have him know right now. Sherlock knew John ought to walk out and never look back, but he hoped he wouldn’t.

Sherlock waited for John to react to this revelation, not intentionally holding his breath, although that may have been the actual fact of the matter. John seemed to take his time, staring at him, assessing. Did he know what kind of power that gave him? Of course he did, and he used it to his best advantage. Maybe he was not as much of an idiot as the rest of the moronic people that populated Sherlock’s world.

“That explains some things,” John said after a while, once he was able to unclench his hand as well as his jaw. “I take it you didn’t appreciate my review.” 

“How was I supposed to react to being called ‘spectacularly abrasive’?” Sherlock asked. 

“You weren’t supposed to read it in the first place!” John exclaimed, but then seemed to think better of it and settled in to the chair more comfortably. He was quiet for a few moments, and then he made to get up. 

“It’s getting late. I guess I’ll just kip on the sofa?” 

“Actually, there is another bedroom upstairs. If you are okay with going upstairs. With your leg and all?” Sherlock said.

“Damn my leg!” John replied. Then, “sorry, it’s just. My leg is fine. Upstairs will be fine.”

Your leg is fine, Sherlock thought, although this time he thankfully kept his mouth shut. He didn’t imagine John would take too kindly to attention being called to his not strictly physical limitations, and Sherlock had gotten himself in enough trouble tonight with his impetuous analyses. What he did say was, “the bathroom is through the kitchen to the left, if you need to freshen up. There should be a toothbrush in there for you.” 

“What? How?” John’s mind raced with confusion wondering how Sherlock could have possibly known that John would end up back at his flat in need of a toothbrush? Did he set the whole thing up?

Sherlock stopped him before he went too far down that train of thought. “Mrs. Hudson, my landlady. I texted her when we were on our way here. I also asked her to put clean sheets on the bed upstairs. See.“ Sherlock held out his phone for John to inspect, and there was his conversation with Mrs. Hudson. Well, conversation was putting it kindly. Sherlock made some demands and Mrs. Hudson replied, “not your housekeeper!”

“But how? No, nevermind,” John said, shaking his head and shouldering his overnight bag. He was tired and hoped that some sleep would be a relief from the crazy day he’d had. He made his way through the kitchen, noticing that it was just as cluttered as the living room. Was he really going to be staying here for a few days? 

John walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Sure enough, on the counter top, there was a brand new toothbrush in its packaging and a sample size tube of toothpaste. From the looks of the rest of the place, he was grateful to not have to go searching for where Sherlock kept his toothpaste. He stared at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth and thought, what is your life, John Watson?

He did not really have an answer for that question at the moment. He picked up his bag and walked back out to the sitting room where Sherlock stood staring out the window. John paused for a moment before making his way up the stairs. He took in the tall, slim figure, the perfectly tailored clothing that clung across shoulders, the dark curls. An undeniably attractive sight. Anyone would think so, right? John involuntarily cleared his throat, then realized he had brought more attention to himself than he had intended. 

“Well then, I’m heading up. Thanks for giving me a place to stay,” John said, eyes still affixed to Sherlock’s back. Willing him to turn around? Maybe. 

Sherlock remained facing the window, although he did say, “I hope you sleep well.” 

When it became clear he would leave it at that, John turned and began to climb the steps. When he reached the bedroom, he was pleasantly surprised to find the bed freshly made and already turned down. He opened his bag, pulled out a t-shirt and pyjama pants to sleep in and set to work settling in to his temporary home. He refolded the other clothes he had brought with him and placed them neatly in the empty dresser in the corner. 

When he was satisfactorily unpacked, John turned out the light, climbed in to bed, and pulled up the covers. He lay on his back in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. He listened to the sounds of the house settling around him, thinking about whose house he was in and about his own flat in disarray before slipping off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

John woke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the window. It took him a few moments to piece together his surroundings and remember where he was. When he finally did, he felt a bit awkward. It was not every day he woke up in some relative stranger’s house, especially not when that stranger was a man.

It’s not every day that your own flat is ransacked by police searching for the traces of a serial killer, John thought. He should probably go back to feeling grateful to this relative stranger for giving him a place to stay. A comfortable one, at that. John had not slept in a bed this comfortable in a long time. Ever, maybe? That was not a very high bar considering his years spent in the army, but still.

He stretched across the width of the bed, fully enjoying the spaciousness and the warmth before getting up to start his day. He was expected at the clinic, so he needed to get moving. He dressed quickly and walked downstairs.

John did not relish the idea of poking through the kitchen to find breakfast, especially with Sherlock’s self-professed penchant for poisonous plants. He was fully prepared to grab a croissant and a coffee on his way into the office but was surprised to find a plate of toast and a steaming hot cup of tea waiting on the kitchen table.

The toast appeared to be buttered to John’s exact specifications, and the tea...a little milk, no sugar. And Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John felt a bit like Goldilocks until he remembered that Sherlock had read his blog. He felt a smile spread across his face as he reached out and snagged a piece of toast from the plate.

Sherlock was still nowhere to be found as John left for work. He trudged off to his day at the clinic with less abject despair than usual. Having just escaped being murdered, life was looking up. His day at the clinic went more smoothly than ever. He made the requisite small talk, somehow avoiding the bit about confronting the maniac stalker florist, being targeted by another maniac stalker, almost being murdered, having his home turned upside down by the police, and having to temporarily move in with the original maniac stalker florist. You know how it goes.

“How’s your day?”

“Oh, good. And yours?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

********

John sat in his office at lunch time, staring absently at the bouquet that Sherlock had sent to him the day before. Before he could get too deep into his thoughts, his phone buzzed with a text message. He grabbed his phone, expecting a message from Sherlock. His heart sunk a bit when he realized it was not Sherlock, and he wondered briefly how that reaction came about. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think Sherlock even had his phone number.

He focused in on the message on his phone. It was from Emma, the woman he had met through the flower arranging class. The class at Sherlock’s flower shop — how was it that his life had so quickly come to revolve around Sherlock?

Before John’s life was turned upside down, making a date with Emma had seemed like a great idea. She was confirming that they were still on for tonight. Of course. Yes. He texted her back and confirmed that he would meet her at her flat at 6pm. He should pick up some flowers. Not flowers from Oleander’s, though. Definitely not.

Once that was settled, John went to set down his phone but figured he ought to let Sherlock know he would be home later than a normal 9–5 workday. Not that Sherlock probably put much stock in 9–5 workdays. And it is not as though he needed to account for all of his movements to Sherlock. He was just staying there temporarily. He figured it was probably the polite thing to do, though.

Lucky for John, Sherlock’s phone number was on his website. John typed it into his phone, typed up a quick message saying that he would not be home until later, and left it at that. He set his phone aside, getting ready to take his next patient. Part of him was waiting for the phone to buzz, waiting for a response. He was a bit disappointed when it did not happen.

********

Turns out the rest of John’s day was a bit of a disappointment. He finished his shift, and picked Emma up at her place. They went to dinner. A quaint Italian place, a few glasses of wine. Flirting, laughter. It felt fun, life-affirming. All until the end of dinner when he had to go and mention he was not actually living at his own flat at the moment. That he was currently living with the crazy florist from Oleander’s. Just for a few days. Just because he could not stay at his place.

It’s not like he had to explain that he was staying with Sherlock, but somehow it just came out. John probably should have thought about this before the moment snuck up on him. He could have concocted some sort of alternate explanation for what had happened to push him out of his flat. How do you explain to your date that you had become the target of a serial killer? He was honest but could not see himself being that honest. It sounded crazy.

The look that crossed Emma’s face was somewhere between disgust and disbelief. She stood up without saying anything, grabbed her coat and purse, and shot him one last disapproving look before she hurried out of the door. It wasn’t until she left that he realized their dessert had not yet arrived.

John poked at the tiramisu with his fork and tried to not look too out of place. He hoped he could pay and slip out without too much notice. The wait staff would not say anything, of course, but John could feel them fully recognizing him as the pathetic person who was walked out on by his date. He paid the bill, content to leave behind that whole scene at the restaurant, and decided to walk the rest of the way back to Baker Street.

********

John arrived home well before 9pm and it did not take a deductive genius to figure out that things had not gone well. Sherlock was sitting at his desk, probably researching some solution to a crime or something. Maybe updating his website. Without looking up, Sherlock asked, “So how was it?”

“How was what?” John asked.

“The date. With the insufferable divorcee. I presume the rebound was not as much of a sure bet as expected,” Sherlock responded.

He just couldn’t leave it alone, could he? He had to get that dig in there, John thought before his brain caught up with the scene in front of him and he had a moment of realization. Sherlock was not working on his own laptop. It was John’s. How had he even gotten a hold of that? Who thinks that is an okay thing to do? Maybe I need to rethink this whole living with a maniac stalker florist situation, John thought.

John stepped just over the threshold as all of this filtered through his mind. “Is that my laptop?” he asked, knowing the answer before actually getting one. He stood staring at Sherlock, sure the pressure of his disapproval was palpable from across the room.

Sherlock paid him no mind. “Yes. Mine was frozen. Malware,” Sherlock replied, not bothering to stop what he was doing or glance up at John. John charged across the room and snatched his laptop away from Sherlock, shutting it as he walked toward the stairway to his bedroom. “How did you even get in? It’s password protected,” John asked, alarmed.

“John, we have already established that your digital security measures are not nearly strong enough. Any mediocre hacker could guess your password and access your accounts in no time. It took me three tries, and I hardly know you,” Sherlock replied.

Not feeling at all reassured, John began climbing the stairs clutching his laptop. When he was a few steps up he paused, left foot planted firmly on the fifth step before turning around and heading back downstairs.

“Wasn’t my laptop in my room?” John asked, surprising himself a bit because since when was he feeling such possession over the room upstairs? He was just staying for a few days, right? The laptop stored in that room was another matter, though, and it was more than a little unsettling that Sherlock had been poking around the room while he was out.

Did he need to make it plain? Set boundaries? Who thought it was okay to just hack into someone else’s laptop without their permission? Was it too reactionary for John to set a “No Sherlock’s allowed” policy on the room while he was staying there? At least, a “No removing things from John’s room” policy. John did not want to contemplate what Sherlock may have already found on his computer. Most of the options were mortification-inducing.

Sherlock still had not answered his question, likely because both of them knew the answer already. John resigned himself to the fact that he was not going to be able to control much of anything while he was staying here.

“Just please don’t go into my room. Don’t go through my stuff.” He left it at that, with a meaningful glare at Sherlock who was now poking at his own unresponsive computer and seemingly paying very little attention. John sighed and trudged up the stairs. There had been more than enough disappointment and defeat in his day.

********

Sherlock sat poking at his laptop for a few more moments after John retreated upstairs. What good was a flatmate if you couldn’t borrow their laptop when needed? No matter. Next time he had access to a working computer, he would buy himself a new laptop using Mycroft’s credit card. It was the least Mycroft could do for him. Not that he would know until it was too late anyway.

Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play something something moody and slow. This whole living with an handsome Army doctor had sounded like a better idea when said Army doctor was not running off on dates with disgraceful divorcees. And not even a good date. Sherlock could have warned him about that had John opened up about his plans for the evening, but seeing as how John shut down after Sherlock’s initial comments, it was probably best to keep his mouth shut. Kid gloves were required with this one.

********

Sherlock had spent the day tidying the flat, moving some of the plants to his greenhouse, making sure all the human body parts and tissue samples were well-labeled and sorted in the fridge. All in all, being a considerate and accommodating host. He made some final observations of his current examination of potentially deadly mold spores and made sure to dispose of the specimens in an appropriate, hygienic manner so as not to contaminate any kitchen implements.

He was going to type up his mold spore findings on his website when he was sidetracked by a text from Lestrade with some news about what police had found during their investigation of John's flat. As he was following up on his hunch about the poison, Sherlock's computer froze. It was not the first time this had ever happened to him. He did tend to wander somewhat far afield of the relatively safe confines of social media and reputable news sources.

Whatever the cause, he could not update his website now because his computer was currently useless. He figured John would understand the importance of sharing the results of his experiment. He was a doctor after all; he was well acquainted with the scientific method. What the public did not know about deadly mold spores could kill them.

What could it hurt to use John’s computer? John was so civic-minded. And Sherlock would make sure not to do too much searching into the other issue with the poison. He certainly did not want to freeze John’s computer, too. From what little he knew, he was pretty sure he would never hear the end of that. John seemed like the type who knew how to hold a grudge. Sherlock should know; he was just the same.

Sherlock went up to John’s room to find his laptop. He was amused to walk in and find everything in its place. John had just moved in last night, but yet every piece of clothing was folded and stored neatly. His gun was hidden in a drawer in his bedside table. It was right behind his bottle of lube, and that seemed as though it could be a messy, potentially disastrous combination. Also, interesting to see what priorities someone holds when packing for a few days away from home.

This was not at all what he had come up here for, though, and Sherlock realized it was probably what most people would call an invasion of privacy. Once he found John’s laptop, he went back down to the desk in the sitting room. He surely had at least another hour before John returned home.

********

Turns out he had about fifteen minutes. Sherlock had not even had a chance to fully explain the method of his deadly mold experiment, much less his findings and conclusions. This was a travesty! It made a mockery of science when John snatched the laptop from under his hands, snapping it shut and clutching it to his chest like a child that had been abducted.

Or maybe he was clutching it like a secret that he didn’t want revealed. Now, there was something interesting. Sherlock had restrained himself from poking around on John’s hard drive. His browser history held enough incriminating evidence of a fascination with truly boring, mostly heterosexual porn to put Sherlock off much further investigation in that realm. Plus, if the writing on John’s blog was any indication, there were no literary masterworks hidden therein.

Since he could not do anything on his computer and John had locked himself away upstairs, there was nothing to be done to soothe his frustration other than play his violin. One more thing that he was sure would outrage John seeing as it was heading on toward the late evening hours when it would not be traditionally appropriate to make loud noises.

Sherlock had had enough of being a good flatmate for one day, though. He hadn’t even gotten any recognition for his efforts. At least John had not seen the body parts in the refrigerator just yet, due to Sherlock’s deft breakfast making maneuvers that morning.

Well, all niceties were off. Flatmates should know the worst about each other, and Sherlock was going to start with the violin. Come to think about it, he had probably already started with hacking into John’s computer, but oh well. Add it to the list. The list of reasons that Sherlock Holmes was a freak and a terrible person. It is not like he hadn’t heard it all before. At least he was really good at playing the violin. If he was going to get on people’s nerves, he preferred to do it beautifully and just a touch manipulatively.

********

Is that a violin? John thought as the first few notes drifted up from the sitting room. At 9pm? was going to be his next thought until he sat for a moment and listened to the music sounding from those strings.

The song was slow, a mix of sadness and confusion and minor key melancholy. As John listened in and his irritation began to recede, his mind wandered back toward the man in the room below. The one who apparently had no end to his obscure talents. John found himself imagining those strings being played by long, graceful fingers and god dammit, John. His life was complicated enough. The last thing he needed right now was to start fantasizing about his still rather standoffish host. The man with the impossible cheek bones and messy, curly hair just made for pulling. Just, no.

John lay back in bed, letting the music lull him to sleep and hoping that his own life would someday sound less confusing.


	8. Chapter 8

John was able to skip out on his afternoon shift at the clinic, so he headed back to Baker Street a bit earlier than usual. He climbed the steps to 221B to find the place empty. 

Great, I’ll have a nice, quiet afternoon to myself, he thought. Quiet was something that had been in short supply since his flat had turned into a crime scene. He grabbed the newspaper off the desk, sat in the red, overstuffed armchair and began to read about people whose lives were currently much worse than his. Murder, genocide, drunk or texting drivers. It was somewhat reassuring to have just missed becoming headline news. 

After a half hour or so, John decided to make himself some tea. He wandered into the kitchen and found the kettle easy enough. He started water boiling while poking through the cabinets to find something suitable. Thankfully, he did not have to poke too much because some of the cabinet contents were questionable at best. Why would someone keep a bottle of hydrochloric acid next to the olive oil? To each their own. Sherlock definitely was an interesting sort, and that is exactly what John had wanted more of in his life, right? 

The faint feeling of fondness dissipated quickly upon opening the refrigerator in search of milk. He found some of that, yeah, but he also found thumbs and various and sundry other body parts (and were those guinea pigs?), all neatly labeled and arranged like it was entirely normal to store tissue samples in your kitchen fridge. This was not normal, was it? John was not entirely sure he knew what normal was these days.

He grabbed the milk, made his tea and sat at the kitchen table (with its microscope pushed considerately out of the way in the corner of the table) and looked around at the madhouse he was currently inhabiting. Was he just as mad because he found that the more shocking things appeared, the more intrigued he was? One thing was for sure, life was definitely no longer boring. 

********

After finishing his tea, John decided to take a walk. He put on his coat and was getting ready to head out the door when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the text. 

At Oleander’s. Come at once, if convenient. SH 

Nothing like feeling summoned to make John’s contrary nature kick in. His phone buzzed again as he made to put it back in his pocket. 

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

What was he on about this time? John stormed down the steps, out the front door, and walked into the flower shop, not really knowing what to expect. Whatever he feasibly would have expected was the last thing he found. 

“Sherlock?” he called as he did not see him anywhere around the shop. A low, hissing sound led him toward the back of the shop to the work room. John called Sherlock’s name one more time before crossing the threshold and coming upon a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks. 

Sherlock was wearing safety goggles, thank christ!, because he was also operating some sort of blow torch and scorching some roses. John could not even begin to fathom why. Also, were those the roses that had been sent to him days earlier? Weren’t they considered police evidence? What were they doing here again? John’s brain was racing with too many questions, so he asked the first one that had come to mind. 

“What in bloody hell are you doing?” he yelled loud enough to be heard over the hissing of the blowtorch.

“Transmuting these roses into something actually interesting,” Sherlock replied, as though that answered anything. 

“I thought they were something interesting, to the police at least. Aren’t these the calling card from my brush with a serial killer?” John continued.

“Yes, yes. But Scotland Yard was done with them, and they were not actually the interesting part of that case.” Sherlock turned off the blowtorch and admired his handiwork of charred, jagged edges on the rose that was just beginning to open. 

“So does that mean I get to move home soon?” John asked. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized he was not sure what he wanted that answer to be. 

“Not just yet,” Sherlock said in an offhand manner, still examining the rose. 

John watched him for a moment before saying, “So what was so important that you called me down here?”

“Oh, yes! Would you like to accompany me to the latest crime scene? Well, not really latest. Your poisoning attempt was the last one to date, but this gentleman was unfortunate enough to have very few people looking out for him.”

John could not help but feel that this was the most bizarre date he had ever been asked out on. 

Of course, this wasn’t a date. Sherlock was clearly just looking for John’s professional, doctorly eye. “Um, I guess so. Don’t the police have their own doctors and forensic teams, though. Why would they want me hanging around?” John asked.

“You saw them in action the other night, John. Do you think they have any hope of solving this case without us?” Sherlock said. 

That question did not really seem to require an answer so John went back to the flower that Sherlock was gently standing in a vase. “So what is that all about? And how did you not just incinerate that rose?” 

“Oh, I preserved it with silica gel before singeing the outer petals with the flame. Gives it the appearance of decay. I’m doing the flowers for a gothic prom. I’m sure they’ll love it,” Sherlock explained as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

********

They headed off to the crime scene, and Lestrade was more than a bit surprised when both John and Sherlock showed up. Lestrade took a long look at John and asked, “What’s he doing here?” Anderson and Donovan were even less able to hide their derision. 

Sherlock paid them no mind. John admired that he was quite good at it and endeavoured not to feel too out of place. “They won’t work with me. I need someone who will work with me,” Sherlock said to Lestrade, dismissing Anderson and Donovan with a wave of his hand. “He’s a doctor.”

“Yeah, I got that from investigating his attempted murder. He’s also a victim; he’s too close to this case,” Lestrade argued.

“Oh come off it, Lestrade. He’s a doctor. He’s able to professionally compartmentalize his personal experience from a patient or this case,” Sherlock argued back. Or at least he hoped John was able to do that. Sherlock needed this experience to prove a point, to himself if not to John. Sherlock put on his best persuasion-by-condescension tone and said, “Come on. You need me.”

After a long moment of glaring at Sherlock and assessing John, Lestrade said, “God help me. I do. Fine. Go ahead.” And he lifted up the police tape for both Sherlock and John, while Anderson and Donovan looked on in horror. 

The scene was grisly. There were signs of struggle evident from the displacement of furniture around the body, and the smell of decomposing flesh and bodily fluids was horrendous. John had seen a lot of traumatic injuries in his time in the Army, but this smell was altogether different and he fought down the urge to vomit upon walking into the room. That would not do to convince anyone he should be allowed to stay. 

He stuck his nose firmly into the crook of his arm until he could control his breathing and nauseated reflexes. Sherlock held a handkerchief to his mouth and nose and somehow dived right in to examining the body, as though there were some sort of magnetic pull between him and dead things that became that way through tragic circumstances. John stood back and watched Sherlock assess the victim and his surroundings, making deductions and seeing things no one else ever would have noticed. It was fascinating to watch, truly amazing. 

His reverie was broken by Sherlock signalling him to come closer. Closer to the dead, decomposing body. This date or collegial outing or whatever it was was not turning out to be as alluring as it sounded at first. John walked over to the other side of the body, still clutching his arm to his nose, and crouched down closer. The body was lying face down, head turned toward the left, the right arm splayed out awkwardly from the body. Sherlock was pointing out something about the pattern of decomposition, the bruising and settling of the fluids beneath the skin, how he must have come to collapse and possibly convulse on the floor before his heart stopped altogether. 

John agreed with his assessment, amazed that someone without a proper medical or forensic degree would have such an eye for these things. “Fantastic!” John exclaimed after a particularly obscure and interesting deduction. He sheepishly glanced over at Sherlock, hoping that maybe he had been too wrapped up in his deductive process to recognize that John had said anything. However, John couldn’t miss the look of surprise that briefly crossed Sherlock face. Sherlock leaned over and whispered “Do you know you say that out loud?” 

“Sorry,” John said a bit abashed. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sherlock replied staring at John over the dead body. 

“Okay, you two. That’s enough. You can quit flirting over my murder victim,” Lestrade chimed in from the doorway and Sherlock whirled away from John, standing up so quickly John feared that he might pass out from the shift in blood pressure. However, Sherlock seemed fine as he walked over to Lestrade, reporting his findings in a clipped tone.

********

Having shared as much as he could with the police, Sherlock motioned for John to follow him out of the house. John walked behind Sherlock as he marched to the police line, diligently avoiding any interaction with Donovan and Anderson who were still sulking by the police cruisers. Sherlock may have become inured to their attention, but John could feel their glares piercing through him. 

Sherlock lifted the police tape as he walked under and held it for John, watching as John instinctively crouched slightly even though he did not really have to. As he reached the other side of the police tape, Sherlock saw John’s entire body go rigid as he stared across the street toward the corner of a building. 

“Sherlock, there was someone watching from over there,” John said indicating the direction with a nod of his head rather than pointing and drawing more attention. Sherlock looked over but whoever had been there was nowhere to be seen. 

As they approached the corner of the building, they heard footsteps running away. Sherlock broke into a sprint and rounded the corner, coat tails flying and John took off right behind him. They were trailing a person of small stature, dressed all in black who could run very, very fast. Before they made it halfway down the street, the person they were chasing hopped on a waiting motorcycle and sped away. Sherlock drew to a quick stop and John, all forward momentum, limp nowhere to be noticed, slammed right into his back before coming to a stop beside him. 

“What was that about?” John asked, and he could have meant chasing a shadowy figure down the street, but that’s not really what he was asking. 

“I don’t know but I’m willing to bet that person has something to do with these murders. Why else would they run?” Sherlock expounded, willfully missing John’s point. 

Of course, Sherlock caught the double meaning, but did not necessarily want to own up to causing the collision or to creating an instance of drawing John into danger to test his hypothesis about John’s now clearly psychosomatic limp. John was even the one to recognize the sinister nature of the person lurking around the corner from the crime scene. Sherlock had been sure he would have to concoct some wacky scenario in which to test his theory. Maybe John had some use in these crime scene examinations after all, because he did not prove much help inside with the dead body. 

They continued walking toward the main road where they could pick up a cab, regulating their breathing from that unexpected burst of activity. John considered the fact that they had just taken off running after an unknown, potentially dangerous person and made a note to carry his gun with him when Sherlock invited him out on one of these investigative jaunts. If Sherlock invited him. Of course, there was nothing to say that he had to, but John found himself hoping he would.


	9. Chapter 9

They caught a cab and went to grab dinner. After a day of crime scene analysis and chasing shadowy figures down city streets, Sherlock figured John might want a little something to eat. They went to Angelo’s where Angelo insisted on putting a candle on their table, and John insisted in a somewhat petulant tone that he was not Sherlock’s date. Fine, okay. Not a date. 

They settled into a somewhat uneasy silence for a few moments until John broke in with the get-to-know-you small talk. Boring. Tedious. Sherlock hated small talk. It was true that in all of the hectic activity and high drama that had brought them together, they did not actually know much of anything about one another. Well, nothing they had consciously shared with the other. 

John asked about siblings, did Sherlock have any? Seemed an odd tactic for someone who obviously had a strained relationship with his own family. Why else would this military hero be living in a lonely flat with no indications of family influence? Sherlock gave him a withering look to let him know exactly how little regard he had for small talk, but he gave it a try. For John. Anything to keep John looking at him with that look of hopeful expectation, that smile. 

“I have an older brother. Mycroft. Infuriating sod that he is. Works some government job, top secret and all. He essentially is the British government,” Sherlock said with as much disdain as he could muster which, while he was feeling rather content, was not nearly as much as was required. 

I guess I do owe him some debt of gratitude for inadvertently putting me in the path of John Watson, Sherlock thought, but that was not something he would ever admit to. Gratitude to his brother? Unthinkable. He watched the assessing look on John’s face, and John asked, “so you two don’t get on”?

“Whatever gave you that impression,” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. Much to his surprise, John laughed at his peevishness. 

“You met him. Well, at least you saw him and shook his hand at the military honors dinner. The posh git in the three piece suit with the perpetual look of having a stick up his arse. I was doing the flowers for that event as a favor to him. Not sure why I gave in to that particular bit of brotherly compassion.” Sherlock continued. 

“Oh, that explains a lot,” John said as he got his laughter under control. He spoke with a light, teasing tone and a fond look not straying far from his face. “I thought you were the posh git in a suit, until I caught a glimpse of Mycroft, did you say?” and it was not nice, but any maliciousness was tempered by the way John licked his lips and smiled at Sherlock. 

Flirtation, subconscious body language, indicators of desire or just a little too much wine? Hard to draw an accurate conclusion. In any case, Sherlock’s first instinct was to divert the uncomfortable attention, so he went for the jugular: John’s estranged family. It was a convenient method of keeping away from more talk of his own family.

“And you? You don’t have close relations with your family. At least, none that can be determined from your belongings or your response to nearly being poisoned in your own home,” Sherlock countered and observed that, yes, all signs that could have indicated flirtation shut down in an instant. 

“How do you know?” John asked a bit guarded and defensive.

“There were no indications of family ties clearly visible in your home, and you likely would not have felt compelled to move in with the ‘maniac, stalker florist’, your words, who you had thought was threatening you earlier in the day, quite rightly I’m afraid, if you had anywhere else to go outside of the perceived safety of your own home,” Sherlock said quickly, stream of consciousness deductions pouring from his mouth. “So, no close family. Or none that you approve of.”

John stared at Sherlock for a few moments letting the words and the reality of his own particular brand of madness sink in. He was right, of course, but it was not something that John regularly admitted to. 

“How do you do that?” John asked cautiously hovering on the edge between unnerved and amazed. Also, what was it about this man that made him open up about things that even his therapist had to drag out of him? John was pretty sure that Sherlock was not above emotional blackmail and John had just revealed a whole lot of ammunition to work with. 

“It is really quite obvious, “ Sherlock replied.

“Not to most people,” John said. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ve determined by now that I am not like most people,” Sherlock said with a tone somewhere between offended and haughty. He had successfully shifted the conversation until it was John who was standing on the shifting, unstable footing, but he feared for a moment that he may have pushed too far. 

“No, you most certainly are not,” John said, ducking his head and running a hand through his hair, feeling exposed. John turned his gaze back to Sherlock with a look that was trying but not succeeding in covering up his vulnerability. He settled into the confession he was getting ready to make and continued. 

“I have a sister who is an alcoholic and a lesbian. Whether those two things are related is for Harry’s therapist to determine, but they were two strikes against her in our parents’ eyes. They pretty much cut her out of the family, while I was the model child. I could not bear to be caught in the middle so I went into the Army. Cut my parents out of my own life. My sister’s drinking is a real problem. I was not around to help. She alternately holds that against me and uses it to try to manipulate me. So, no, I do not have what anyone would call close family ties,” John explained sounding a bit resigned by the end.

Sherlock watched John closely throughout his revelation, filing away information freely given along with impressions revealed underneath conscious control. John took a larger than strictly necessary sip of his wine, nearly draining his glass. Interesting that response to talking about one’s familial history of alcoholism. But Sherlock already had John pegged in that respect. His own history of addiction made it easier to see in others. John’s priority was not to dull his senses, but to heighten his experience of life. To feel the rush of escaping from danger, enough of an impulse to run right into dangerous situations. 

Sherlock paused for a moment, unsure what to say. He had forced this issue, but he was not one to offer sympathetic gestures or platitudes. Instead, he asked, “Dessert?” John was taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversational tone, but seemed to appreciate it for what it was. A way of getting out of a conversation that had gotten too dark too fast. “Yes, please,” John replied and waved to their waiter for a dessert menu. 

When John had placed his order for cannoli and a coffee, Sherlock sent their waiter away without ordering anything himself. John looked surprised, “But you are the one who asked about dessert” he implored. 

Sherlock ignored the comment. He really was failing on this socially acceptable interaction scale. Oh well, John was still here, for the moment at least, and that was all that mattered. Sherlock looked out the window over John’s shoulder, seemingly deep in thought, letting John get over his confusion and embarrassment. Maybe giving him too much time to recover because the next question out of John’s mouth put him firmly back on unsteady ground. 

“So, do you have a girlfriend?” John asked with an inquisitive smile. Sherlock glanced uneasily at John before he replied, “not really my area,” as deadpan as possible. 

Really, John? You have seen my living space. Do you imagine any woman would put up with that? I’m surprised you seem so willing to do so, was what Sherlock thought but he clamped down on that particular jibe. 

John’s dessert arrived and he set to fixing his coffee. John took a moment to take a bite of his cannoli and then asked, “so do you have a boyfriend, then?”, and Sherlock was taken aback to see him lick his lips while awaiting an answer. There was plausible deniability, he may have just been licking a bit of cream from his lips, but oh my god, John really needed to get his unconscious body language under control. At least until his conscious mind was ready to catch up. This was too much. 

Sherlock did not know what else to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind, “I consider myself married to my work.” As though that said it all. It was even mostly true. It had been ages since he had considered any sort of romantic entanglement. Yet, here he was, potentially becoming entangled, already plotting ways to become even more so.

“Oh, I see. It’s fine, it’s all fine.” was all John said with one last look at Sherlock before he focused on finishing his dessert. 

********

They pulled on their coats and walked into the cold night air after Angelo insisted they not pay for anything. Sherlock set off in the direction of Baker Street and then slowed down to a pace behind John for a moment, watching his gait, pleased to see that either the dangerous chase from earlier or the sated, full feeling from dinner agreed with him. John’s limp was nowhere to be seen. He walked with what could even be presumed to be a confident swagger. 

Now that Sherlock thought about it, there were too many variables. Must isolate and do more experimentation. Danger or domesticity? Initial results, however, seemed to prove that some mixture of the two did good things for John Watson. Sherlock was pretty sure he could work with that. 

He stepped up to keep pace with John and they walked in companionable silence back to 221B. They climbed the steps, took off their coats, and settled in to what could easily become their places, John in his red, overstuffed chair, Sherlock on his modern leather chair across from him.

John reached across the space and nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own. Was it just the wine, the lowering of inhibitions? John drew his foot back and looked at Sherlock earnestly and said, “thanks for taking me in. Giving me a place to stay.” His gaze pinned Sherlock to his chair, and he was unable to make any sort of response. One was probably called for, but he did not know what to say. He could easily be dismissive; he did that quite well. But he did not want to break this moment, so he did his best to meet John’s gaze and just hold it there. To hope John could hear him say the things he could not vocalize. 

A soft half-smile spread across John’s face before he pushed himself up to standing. “Time to get ready for bed,” he said, stretching so his terrible jumper pulled up high enough to show a sliver of his stomach. 

Did he really not know what he was doing? Sherlock could not be so sure at this point. He tried his best not to stare too much, and was sure he had failed spectacularly as he said, “Goodnight, then.”

John smiled down at Sherlock and thanked him for taking him along to the crime scene. A look of giddiness and excitement all out of proportion to what had transpired. 

Oh, John Watson, you beautifully twisted soul. What did I ever do to deserve you? Sherlock wondered silently and smiled back. “Glad you enjoyed yourself. We should do it again sometime.” He cringed at the trite sentiments spilling from his mouth, but it seemed that it was just what John wanted to hear as he turned down the hall toward the bathroom with an ease Sherlock certainly hoped he felt.

Sherlock sat lost in thought, fingers steepled under his chin, until John emerged from the bathroom and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He tried to file John and his story and his reactions away so he could focus on the case. This really was becoming quite inconvenient, all this caring for John Watson. 

He settled into grimmer thoughts of the decomposing corpse and the serial killer that had put him there. It was still unclear how the killer was breaking in to people’s houses, but this time around confirmed that the preferred source of poison administration was through the victim’s toothbrush. Clever. Who suspects anything about their toothbrush? Except for obsessive compulsive army doctors who are very regimented in their habits. All of the other victims have been in the army, but they seem to have let their guard down more than John upon returning from the war. Or else, John was lucky. Lucky that Sherlock had shaken him out of his complacent existence before he could be the victim of poisoning. Sherlock certainly was not used to being anyone’s lucky charm. It’s not like he believed in luck anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am taking off on a long-awaited vacation, but I leave you with some smitten Sherlock to hold you over. I will not be able to post next week, but I will return the following Sunday evening. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading along, and for all the comments and kudos! Take care until next time.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock arranged some flowers which helped him to arrange his thoughts. About the case? About John? Maybe a little of both. He brought a small arrangement home with him to place on the mantle. Some hawthorn (hope), forsythia and blue anemone (anticipation). Something so unassuming as eating take away on the couch and watching some truly terrible television seemed to make the evening feel safe, safe enough for Sherlock to propose something he never would have under normal circumstances. Although, normal circumstances had never involved having an attractive man shoveling lo mein noodles into his mouth rather sloppily on the other end of his couch. No, there was nothing normal about these circumstances. 

Sherlock leaned into the arm of the couch while looking at John and could not look away. John eventually noticed Sherlock staring and turned his head mid-bite with noodles hanging out of his mouth. John looked down at Sherlock’s plate to see that he had barely eaten anything and John felt a little sheepish. He finished his bite and dropped his plate to his lap and asked, “What is it?” There was obviously something Sherlock wanted to say.

Before he could lose his nerve, Sherlock said, “I think you should move in here.” He left it at that, still watching John to see how he would react to this declaration. Only lies have detail, so he fought the urge to follow up that statement. This was what he thought, simple as that. 

It was a good thing that John had finished swallowing before Sherlock said anything because he would have spit noodles across the room. Instead, he said, “I should what?” Staring back at Sherlock, he was left feeling like maybe he had missed a few important pieces of context. 

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, “I think you should move in, John. Do keep up.” 

John continued to stare at him as if he had never considered this option and Sherlock began to worry that maybe he was taking this too far. But when had he ever let jumping to extremes stop him before? Obviously, John needed some convincing so Sherlock made his case as plainly as he could. 

“You don’t really care one way or the other about going back to your dismal, lonely flat that is far less convenient to your work than Baker Street. Plus, there is a serial killer still on the loose who knows your address and has already tried to kill you there once. As much as you thrive on danger, I think you will agree there are ways to go about that without you explicitly being a target. I have a few ideas already. You are eating regularly, and seeming much more agreeable than when we first met. You haven’t yelled at me in at least a day. Your limp has virtually disappeared. Sorry to say, your therapist was quite right about that bit. I have an extra room, I enjoy your company, you are not nearly as idiotic as the rest of humanity, you even picked up groceries and dinner on your way home. I think you should stay. Although, you do have terrible taste in telly.” Sherlock stated with a punctuating glance toward the television. 

John continued to gape at Sherlock as he ran through his list of reasons why John should turn his life upside down and move in for good. It kind of made sense in a strange way, and his life had already been completely reconfigured a week or so ago. Is it wrong that he had almost been hoping to hear this all along? Well, once he got over his anger about the maniac stalker florist who turned out to be a somewhat endearing maniac and not his stalker. Not a killer one, at least. 

John would love to find a way to claim that decadent upstairs bed for himself. That in itself was enough to make him want to say yes. Now that he stopped to think about it, he did feel better than he had in as long as he could remember. Certainly since returning from the war. But what was the underlying motivation here. Was Sherlock hitting on him? Not likely, considering their conversation at Angelo’s. Sherlock did not seem like the type to particularly trouble himself with relationships, certainly not the type that move directly to moving in together. But John had to make sure.

“Moving a little fast, aren’t we?” he asked in a teasing tone. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John’s question, and tried to play it off like it did not mean anything to him. “You are already here. It’s not like I’m proposing or anything. If you would like to stay, you should.”

That answer certainly was not encouraging of some of the more far flung hopes that had started intruding on John’s consciousness, but he would settle for having Sherlock close, for maybe sharing in more adventures, for whatever excitement this mad genius brought his way. At least his life would be interesting. 

“Okay, I guess it’s settled, then. I’ll stay,” John said. He could not read the reaction on Sherlock’s face so he stopped trying and went back to picking at his food. 

“Good,” Sherlock said, and turned his attention back to the television screen. 

********

John continued working his job at the clinic even though he rather despised the dullness of his patients and their common colds and weird skin issues. Nothing like army trauma surgery, but then again, he figured that was probably a good thing for now. Healing, non-triggering, all those things that were supposed to be good for him. So why was it that his favorite part of his week was running through the streets of London chasing some potential bad guy or hovering over a dead body, sometimes giving his esteemed medical opinions but usually just reflecting back the genius that was his flatmate? He could not get enough of telling Sherlock how brilliant and fantastic he was. 

Really, it just came out after a particularly astute deduction. John was surprised it didn’t slip out more often, like when Sherlock was watering the plants, or staring intently into his microscope, or assembling an ornate flower arrangement. What John actually meant was more along the lines of beautiful and gorgeous and stunning, but he thought it was probably best to keep those exclamations to himself. Stunning, though, that might work and not come off as too forward. John figured he would try that one on next time and see if it elicited the same pleased looks that arose from brilliant and fantastic. 

********

Later that week, John’s laptop had finally emerged from hiding. Sherlock peeked over his shoulder on his way to the couch and noticed that John was working on updating his online dating profile. Well, more like hunting and pecking out his new profile, thought Sherlock as he settled in for a sulk. It was actually painful to watch John type. The slow deliberateness of his typing with one finger on each hand caused physical pain to observe. Sherlock curled into the corner of the couch and pulled his dressing gown tighter around his body. 

"So what happened to Ella?" Sherlock asked. 

"Ella is my therapist. I am not dating my therapist," John shot back, looking up at Sherlock from over the screen of his laptop. "Her name was Emma. She hasn’t come round since I mentioned I moved in here. Can’t say I blame her with the first impression you made. Why the sudden interest in my dating life?"

“Just making conversation. Won’t be trying that again,” muttered Sherlock as he turned over to rest his head on the back of the couch, turning away from John. 

John could not help thinking how small and fragile Sherlock looked in this moment. How someone who loomed over most people in the real world, appearing so much larger than life with an acerbic wit that quickly put people in their place could also look so vulnerable and childlike was a mystery. 

John continued poking at the dating site, sending off a few messages to women who looked attractive and interesting. So far, he’d had a few first dates but nothing more. According to the site’s matching algorithm, none of these women were necessarily a great match for him, but he could not seem to find any women that this site believed would be his dream match. He was willing to settle for good enough. 

John contemplated updating his blog with some of the highlights of the past few weeks, but then thought better of it. What could he possibly say that did not sound completely unbelievable? He had met a handsome florist who he moved in with a few days later, but not before he had been sent not one but two bouquets and almost become the next in a line of victims of a serial killer only to be rescued by the handsome florist and his connections with the police. The handsome florist took him along to a crime scene to observe the fate of another veteran who was not so lucky as to have a handsome florist looking out for him and then they ran off down the street chasing a shadowy figure who had been lurking in an alley. Then, they went to dinner? 

Yeah, even though that is pretty much how it happened, it all sounded a little too farfetched for his potential reading audience. And there were a few too many mentions of how handsome he found his new flatmate to risk Sherlock reading his blog post. Best to just leave it be. 

John looked over at Sherlock who remained curled up on the couch while deep in a sulk, and he felt a mix of fondness and confusion. If Sherlock did not care about romantic attachments and truly was married to his work, why did it matter if John was looking elsewhere for potential romantic attachment? John could swear that Sherlock was acting jealous or slighted, but he figured that maybe he did not understand him very well. He doesn’t feel things that way, or so John assumed. 

Whatever Sherlock felt, John’s fondness won out and he closed his laptop, picked up the blanket from the back of his chair and walked over to the couch. He gently laid the blanket over Sherlock’s body and fought the impulse to run his fingers through those dark curls. Instead, he put a hand on the blanket on Sherlock’s shoulder and said goodnight before heading off to bed.

********

Sherlock laid there silently, feeling the warmth of the blanket and of John’s hand and hating himself for wanting more than that. Or was he hating John for needing more than what Sherlock thought he could provide? 

Sherlock had never really learned how to ask for the attention he needed, that he craved despite all of his appearance and protestations to the opposite. The attention he did receive was either negative or of the sort that “oh, he’s bright. He’ll get on fine on his own. Doesn’t need our help.” And so he worked hard not to need it, not to need anyone. By all measures, he is aloof and independent and he does not need. So why did being near John Watson make him feel needy and lonely and wanting. So much wanting. To be good. To be enough. To be wanted in return. 

What did John want? He enjoyed a bit of adventure, clearly. Danger. But it seemed he was mostly desperate to cling to his mantle of mediocre heterosexuality. He was also possibly a terrible boyfriend. That didn’t matter so much to Sherlock, though. He knew he was likely a terrible boyfriend, too, all prickly and internal.

Sherlock knew it was fruitless. Knew he could not have what he thought he wanted. How did he even know? He would probably grow tired of John one day. Sure, it seemed inconceivable now, but his track record with lasting relationships was non-existent. It was best to leave it be. It was obvious John did not want any more, look at all the replaceable women he took out on dates. And if John were to date him, who’s to say he would not eventually replace Sherlock. That would be the worst fate of all.

All this feeling was not conducive to the work. Sentiment is a chemical defect and all. His life was very full, and full of accomplishments that he had proudly built for himself. What did he need with pining after some unattainable man? It had been Sherlock’s idea to have John move in but he was beginning to think that it had been one of his biggest masochistic blunders to date. He needed to get back to concentrating on the work. The work was always there for him. No more wallowing. 

He stood up, not bothering to fold the blanket but tossing it to the other end of the couch. He walked over to the mantle and picked up the floral arrangement he had placed there the other day, starting to wilt just like Sherlock’s own sense of hope and anticipation. He pulled the flowers from their vase and dropped them in the trash. 

********

Sherlock did his best to keep his mind on facts and science and dead things. The inner workings of his metaphorical heart were too nebulous and distracting to dwell on for long. He tried to find a trail through the serial killing spree that had seemingly gone cold since John moved in with him. Clues, more bodies, he needed evidence. Whoever this perpetrator was, he was good. 

Sherlock was loathe to ask his brother for help, but he was more keen to find out about the person who fled from them at the crime scene. All the CCTV cameras in the area had been looped to show the same empty street scene during their chase. Sherlock could tell because the same pigeon kept strutting across the screen from right to left. There was definitely something suspicious here, and this cemented it. Find this person and they would find their killer.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a lazy Sunday. John had spent the morning sleeping in, having a wank in the shower, eating breakfast, and reading the paper. Blissful. Relaxing. He was looking forward to another first date tonight. Maybe that sounded depressing or pathetic, but he thought there was potential here. This woman had messaged him. Her pictures were attractive; she had chin-length blond hair and a nice smile. And the dating site said they were an almost perfect match. He was more than willing to see where this would go.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, and there were no urgent messages on John’s phone calling him away to a crime scene, so John assumed he was down at the flower shop. Maybe he should pick up some flowers for his date to make a good impression. As long as he did not let Sherlock pick the flowers or he would end up with a bouquet telling of death, secrets, and the inevitability of heartache. 

As John opened the front door to Oleander’s, Molly rushed past him, crying and running off down the street. John wondered for a moment if he should run after her, to make sure she was okay. His curiosity about what had caused such a reaction was piqued, though, so he walked through the door only to nearly be hit by a bag lunch hurled in his general direction. The lunch bag assault was accompanied by a tirade from Sherlock that John was having a hard time keeping up with. 

After John recovered from ducking to avoid flying objects, he yelled, “Sherlock!” That at least shut Sherlock up, but he twirled away and stomped into the walk-in flower refrigeration unit. John rushed through the front of the shop and down the hallway to follow Sherlock into the fridge. He knew Sherlock was capable of some pretty extreme mood swings, but this was beyond anything he had seen before. He stood just inside the door watching Sherlock muttering angrily to himself, picking up flowers and throwing them on the ground. John could not say he understood why.

“Sherlock,” he said in a firm but less demanding tone. “What is going on here? And why did Molly nearly run me over?” John asked.

Sherlock stopped throwing plant material for a moment and said, “She’s ruined it.” 

“What? She’s ruined what?” John asked, still highly confused. 

“The flowers. This whole batch of flowers will be ruined. It’s all her fault.” Sherlock said as though that explained anything. Sherlock was picking up flowers and inspecting them, but had stopped throwing them on the ground. 

“I’m sorry. I am slow. I’ll admit it,” John said staring at Sherlock and willing him to give a more explicit answer. “Can you explain to me what exactly happened here?”

Sherlock sighed deeply and went to stand against the far wall of the fridge. Then he explained, “Molly stored her bag lunch in here. Her lunch full of off-gassing fruit. Do you know what ethylene does to cut flowers, John? It speeds up the process of decay and they die. These flowers are done. I can’t sell them.” He gestured around before wrapping his arms tightly across his chest. 

John took a moment to look around and let that explanation sink in. The flowers did not look any worse for wear to his eyes, except for the ones that Sherlock had already crushed under foot. He was under the impression that the shop did not do such a high volume of business that it much mattered. John had always just assumed that most of the flowers ended up as compost anyway. 

“Do you think people will notice? I mean, they look fine to me,” John replied, knowing that was likely not the right thing to say but saying it anyway. 

“They will notice when the flowers don’t last more than a day or two. I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t sell short-lived flowers,” Sherlock groused. 

“From what I can tell, Molly is a big part of your shop’s reputation and you just sent her fleeing the premises in tears. Was that really necessary, Sherlock? She made a mistake,” John said.

Sherlock looked up at him, a little chagrined. “A bit not good?” he asked, watching John for his reaction. 

“A bit.” John said. “You certainly did not have to hurl her lunch at the back of her head,” John stated for extra emphasis. 

“She wasn’t actually there. I wouldn’t have hit her,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Yeah, well, you almost hit me,” John replied.

“You can defend yourself. Plus, your reflexes are still quite good,” Sherlock observed with a bit of a smile on his face. 

At that point, it started to register with John that he was standing inside of a walk-in refrigerator. He had left his coat upstairs, so he was only wearing his shirt, trousers, and a cardigan.

“Are you good then?” John asked.

“Yeah, good.” Sherlock replied.

“Great, then I’m going to go. Unlike you, I don’t live in my coat and it is a bit chilly in here,” John said. He reached for the door of the fridge and pushed, but it did not budge. He moved to leverage his body weight better, but still the door would not open. He tried to keep an edge of panic out of his voice as he said, “Sherlock, the door is stuck.”

“I can see that,” Sherlock replied, infuriatingly snide, still leaning against the opposite wall of the fridge with his arms crossed. “It does that sometimes. Billy was stuck in here for a whole day before I found him once.” Sherlock reported as though his anecdote was going to make John feel any better about the situation. It was distinctly not making John feel any better. 

“So how do we get out?” John asked in a low tone, trying not to lose his temper now. 

“We’ll have to wait for someone to find us,” Sherlock said, as though it was just that simple. And maybe it was, but John did not have time to waste. He had a date tonight, with his perfect match. He was supposed to be picking flowers to sweep her off her feet, not getting stuck in a refrigerator with his sometimes seemingly cold-blooded flatmate. 

“Who’s going to find us? Molly certainly isn’t coming back this way anytime soon,” John grumbled.

John reached into his pocket to pull out his mobile. He’d call…who? Who exactly would he call? The main person he interacted with was the other one stuck in this predicament. Sherlock was really the only person who texted him. He had a bunch of phone numbers from a bunch of first dates that never really went anywhere, but he couldn’t exactly call them and ask them to come down to the flower shop to let him out so he could leave in time for his next first date. No, not likely. He also could not really bring himself to call his date for tonight and say “hey, can you come let me out of this refrigerator so we can go have dinner?” Maybe he could at least let her know he might be late. 

John looked down at his phone and felt panic rise a little bit more. There was no signal. There was no way for him to contact anyone even if he tried. He felt a little defeated and helpless as he turned back to Sherlock, who still looked calm and collected, the exact opposite of how John had found him. “I guess you know there is no service in here, huh?” John asked, holding up his phone ineffectually before putting it back in his pocket. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled, unlatching one arm to indicate the metal walls that surrounded them. 

“So, we just wait?” John asked, desperately hoping that Sherlock would have some other ideas. 

“Seems that way,” Sherlock replied. 

John tried leaning back on the door and affecting an air of nonchalance like Sherlock. The door was colder than the ambient room temperature, so that did not work. He ended up pacing back and forth, which burned off some of his nervous energy and served to keep him a little bit warmer but it was a losing battle. He spent some time looking at the flowers, trying to choose ones that would be suitable for a first date. Flowers that would make a good impression. Hell, he had better start building an apology bouquet already, “sorry I missed our first date. I hope you will forgive me.” 

John had almost forgotten how cold he was, lost in his reverie of how he screwed up every chance at romance that he ever came across. He was starting to imagine he was a hopeless cause. Then, he heard Sherlock say, “come here.” 

“Huh?” was all John could manage. He turned toward Sherlock, but could not hide the fact that he has shivering. Teeth chattering and all. 

“Stop being stubborn and come here,” Sherlock said. He unwrapped his arms from his chest and held the lapels of his coat open in a clear invitation. 

What had this day come to? It was supposed to be so simple, he was going to pick up flowers and go on a date. Now, here he was stuck in a refrigerator facing the prospects of hypothermia or huddling with his flatmate for warmth. Well, hypothermia did not sound too appealing and he was pretty sure his lips were already turning blue (not a good look for a first date), so he warily made his way across the fridge toward Sherlock. Sherlock looked indecently gorgeous as usual, all lanky limbs, smooth skin, and expensive, well-tailored clothes. The purple shirt he was wearing was almost too much. 

John looked up at Sherlock with a look that implied “are you sure?”, but Sherlock only nodded and urged John closer. John stepped between the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and stood hesitantly, not quite sure what to do. He had never actually been this close to Sherlock, except for that time he had run right into his back, but that had only been a brief encounter. 

Now, Sherlock was wrapping his coat lapels around John, pulling him closer, and John was sure Sherlock could feel his involuntary shivering. John was not quite sure what to do with his hands or his head or any other part of his body now that he was this close to Sherlock. Sherlock’s arms settled around him and, no, he was definitely not cold blooded. The heat emanating from his body and trapped inside his coat felt glorious. If only John could relax into it. He leaned in, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s clavicle, hands shoved awkwardly into his own trouser pockets, and closed his eyes and focused on willing away his shivering. John tried to focus on anything but the smell of Sherlock’s skin and the warmth of his body. 

“Better?” Sherlock asked, and John was pleased that he had gotten the shiver out of his voice although he was somewhat frightened of what would take its place when he said, “yes,” followed by a quiet “thank you.” 

They stood that way for a few moments longer before John began to relax a bit more. He dropped his shoulders that had been hunched up by his ears and tipped his right ear against Sherlock’s collarbone, against that sinfully decadent purple shirt. John could not tell if this was incredibly intimate or not at all. He went with the assumption of somewhere closer to not at all hoping it would negate the fact that he really wanted to touch. To feel Sherlock’s skin, to see his body stretched out beneath him. And yeah, John, you are going to have to derail this train of thought really quickly if you do not want things to get exceedingly awkward. Well, even more awkward than they already were. And he could swear that Sherlock leaned his head into the top of John’s head. Yeah, not intimate at all. Christ.

If this was the way things were going, might as well go all in, John thought. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and placed them lightly on either side of Sherlock’s waist. He thought he felt Sherlock tense for a minute, but maybe he was just imagining it. John’s brain was definitely screaming at him to stop right there. They resumed a more comfortable standing position once John finished fidgeting, sharing warmth and feeling like they could survive the wait until someone came to find them. John could not help but giggling when he warmed up enough to think about the position they were in. 

“What?” Sherlock asked sounding genuinely perplexed and a little defensive. He had lifted his head to look down at John. John who was still giggling softly into his chest. Was this a side effect of hypothermia? Hallucinations, hysteria? Sherlock did not know what he found so funny about huddling for warmth, but if he was going to be that way, John could fend for himself. 

“I feel like I’m at a school dance,” John replied through giggles, looking up at Sherlock with an open, laughter-filled look on his face that made him look beautiful. 

Beautiful? Was that the right word? Sod it, it was too cold to come up with precisely the right word. Beautiful would do for now. Sherlock smiled down at John’s laughing face and something in that look drew him in. John’s hands tightened almost imperceptibly on his waist as he leaned up slightly and then…

Mrs. Hudson threw open the door to the fridge. John fairly jumped away from Sherlock as Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, “oh boys! What happened? How long have you been stuck in here?” 

Time became somewhat distorted and irrelevant when you were freezing to death in a room full of flowers most of which were destined to adorn funeral services, appropriately enough. John looked from Mrs. Hudson back to Sherlock who had a somewhat dazed look on his face as he gazed back at John. He felt a lump of guilt take up in his stomach as he reached for his phone. 4 hours? Could it have really been that long? 

John walked out of the fridge and rushed toward the front door waiting for his phone to get a signal again. Maybe he could text his date and catch her before she made it to the restaurant where they were supposed to meet. Take a rain check? It was not really the first impression he had hoped to give, so he was somewhat relieved when there was a text from her.

“Hi John. It’s Mary. Look, something’s come up and I can’t meet up until later. Drinks, maybe? 8pm?”

Mrs. Hudson turned back toward Sherlock. “What is going on, dear?”

Sherlock considered that a very good question.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft came by Oleander’s about an hour after John had rushed out the door for his date. Mycroft’s visits were always unscheduled and, as usual, unwelcome.

“I’m really not in the mood, Mycroft,” Sherlock huffed and turned back to his flowers. Once he finally convinced Mrs. Hudson that everything was fine and she should leave him be, he had spent the intervening time deep in thought while tidying up the flowers he’d thrown to the floor in his fit of frustration. He was none too pleased about this interruption of his much deserved wallowing. Then, realization dawned on him and he stood up to face his brother. 

“You sent Mrs. Hudson in to check on us,” Sherlock accused. 

“I got you out, didn’t I?” Mycroft replied. “Despite your insistence on dismantling whatever security cameras exist inside Oleander’s, there are a few you do not know about.” Mycroft explained.

Yet, thought Sherlock and made a mental note to sweep the shop for more recording devices.

“Nevermind that,” Mycroft continued in an effort to curb Sherlock’s melodramatic eye rolling. “According to my intelligence, John Watson is currently on a date with a Mary Morstan.”

“Yeah, Mary something-or-other. I didn’t catch a last name. Are you keeping tabs on John now, too? It’s not enough to spy on your little brother?” Sherlock retorted. 

“I keep a weather eye on the people who are closest to my little brother,” Mycroft replied. “He has gotten close very quickly it seems. Have you decided to try your hand at interpersonal relationships?” Mycroft smirked. He never could resist taking a jab at Sherlock’s loner tendencies. 

Not close enough, Sherlock couldn’t help thinking, but he kept that bit to himself. Who was he kidding, though? Mycroft could read that thought all over him.

“John is in very grave danger,” Mycroft said ominously. “And I fear it is all because of me.”

Sherlock groaned, “Not everything is about you, Mycroft.” He watched as Mycroft pulled something from inside his coat. 

Without preamble, Mycroft stated, “Mary Morstan, the woman that John is on a date with right now, is an assassin-for-hire. All the intelligence we have on her is located in this file. It’s a limited picture, but it appears she was hired by the brother of Charles Winterson. His family is none too pleased with his tragedy being the impetus for our renewed attention to veteran rehabilitation.”

Winterson, of course, Sherlock thought. That name had been ingrained in the minds of the country since the seemingly senseless massacre that occurred at his hands months after his return from a particularly violent deployment in Iraq full of insurgent attacks, suicide bombings, and a roadside bomb that had killed everyone in his infantry section but for himself. Whether the cause of his actions was some sort of survivor’s guilt, PTSD, or just a psychopathic personality, the media had gone on a speculative bender, turning the lives of his family upside down and painting them all as depraved monsters. 

“It’s not much to go on, but we do have this,” Mycroft pulled out a flash drive, turning it over in his hand to reveal the letters A.G.R.A. “Think, Sherlock. Does any of this ring a bell?” Mycroft pressed. 

The letters written on the outside of the drive flooded Sherlock’s mind with information. AGRA. India. Taj Mahal? No, that wasn’t it. 1960s, mass suicides and murders involving Datura. Just like Sherlock thought, an alkaloid toxin from the nightshade family. Common enough to not be difficult to come by, however, the dosage that was being administered was clearly concentrated judging by the effects and how quickly they took hold. Hallucinations, fever, failure of the autonomic nervous system. Atropine overdose causing fatal heart arrhythmia. 

If Mycroft was telling the truth, John really was in trouble. 

“Where is he?” Sherlock demanded. 

“How would I know? Where do people go on dates?” Mycroft responded, looking affronted.

“Come on, it’s not like you didn’t have him followed,” Sherlock groused before saying, “forget it,” and pulling out his phone. His brother was never very intentionally helpful. 

Thankfully, John’s phone had not been kept under such close scrutiny as his laptop. Once John started regularly accompanying him to crime scenes, Sherlock decided it was safest if he could find out where John was if they happened to get separated. He had been able to install a GPS tracking app while John wasn’t paying attention, which was a lot of the time. Truly, John rarely noticed anything that was going on around him. Not anything that mattered anyway. 

Sherlock found the dot indicating John Watson’s location and took off out the door. He flagged down and cab and shouted instructions to where he needed to be. “Quickly!”

********

As the cab turned the corner, Sherlock saw John standing on the sidewalk. Mary was on the front stoop unlocking the door to her flat. He was just in time! 

“No! John, don’t,” Sherlock exclaimed as he bolted from the cab. He ran right into John, forcefully turning him away from where he had been just about to follow Mary inside. John struggled until Sherlock released him, and he looked about ready to kick Sherlock’s arse. 

“What the bloody hell, Sherlock? Just being the snarky flatmate isn’t good enough for you anymore? Now you’ve crossed the line into actively sabotaging my dates?” John yelled. He had spent the better part of the evening trying not to think about the events in the flower fridge, to focus on his date, and he thought he was even mostly successful. 

“She’s the serial killer, John,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. 

John just laughed in his face. “You have got to be kidding me!” He glared at Sherlock and watched as the look on his face turned from one of frustration, to confusion, to something else.

John glanced back over his shoulder toward where Mary was standing, watching the whole scene play out. Blond hair, red coat, and black gun trained on the two of them having their little domestic. 

John immediately turned around to face her, unconsciously shielding Sherlock with his body. Looking for cover, assessing their options, trying to figure out if he could cover the distance and disarm her from where they stood. None of the options looked very good. 

He raised his hands. This was very much not what he had expected from this date. He had thought things were going so well this time around. 

Mary kept the gun trained on John. “Ah ah, John. Stay right where you are.”

No wonder they were an almost perfect match. They both knew their way around a gun. Too bad she was also what? A mercenary? A spy? Whatever it was, it definitely put her on the wrong side of John’s strongly developed moral code. 

“Oh, boys,” Mary said in a lilting tone that could almost be mistaken for affection if it weren’t for the fact of the gun. “You were both so slow. Especially you, Sherlock. I have heard so much about you and, honestly, I expected better. But there’s always something, right? Always something you don’t expect. Funny that it usually comes in the guise of a woman, you arrogant, sexist bastard,” Mary said, sneering at Sherlock. 

“What’s made you so bold now? Haven’t you just let your arrogance get the better of you?” Sherlock asked. 

“Because waiting for you to figure it out was growing tedious. Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of expert on these things? Poison wouldn’t be the way I would usually go, but I thought we could play a little game. However, this is so much more fun than simply killing people and waiting for you to discover the pattern,” Mary said, using the barrel of her gun to indicate John. “You chose well, Sherlock. He’s really something. 

“Do you wonder why he never goes on more than one or two dates with anyone? Well, I don’t know what his problem was before he met you, but now I can safely assume it’s because all he ever does is talk about you. All night long. You should see his face when he mentions your name. It fairly lights up with pride and admiration. You have really done a number on this one, Sherlock. If I had to hear one more mention about your dashing coat or your cheekbones...” 

John felt his stomach drop as he watched Mary nervously. Sure, he admired Sherlock’s intellect, and John certainly enjoyed joining in on the crime scene investigations, but he had not realized his infatuation was so blatantly evident to the rest of the world. 

Mary continued, “And you, Sherlock. Pining away for the military man of your dreams, too afraid to make them reality. Too afraid of making a mistake, so you send subtle coded messages through heirloom flowers. Look at you! Nothing about you is subtle. And he still didn’t see it, did he?”

John looked over at Sherlock, surprised. Sherlock wondered if John could see the blush that had spread across his face. If John could finally see every little piece of his metaphorical heart that he fought so hard to hide away. It must be written all over him for anyone to see, the way Sherlock imagined he could read those around him, how he imagined he could read John Watson. Apparently, he had been very wrong.

“Ultimately, I’m not really interested in either of you,” Mary said. 

John couldn’t deny that hurt a bit. He had been dumped by his fair share of women, but most did not express their villainous motivations so readily. Then again, most of them were not using him as a pawn in a murder spree. What had his life become? 

John’s eyes lingered for a moment longer on Sherlock’s face, and as he turned his gaze back toward Mary, he saw her adjust her aim and fire the gun directly at him. His body registered the panic before he consciously knew what happened and then he was tackled to the ground, Sherlock falling heavily on top of him, glass shattering in the background, car alarm wailing. 

********

John listened to the sound of steps retreating. Sherlock was lying on top of him and they both stayed there for a moment, breathing heavily, panic fading, still reeling from the gunshot and the revelations of the last few moments. 

“Sherlock,” John said as he reached up and dusted shards of glass off of Sherlock’s back. He reached up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, something that he had wanted to do for as long as he could remember. Was he allowed to do this now? Sherlock had just knocked him out of the way of a bullet. Surely a little bit of fondness was acceptable. He slid his hand down to the back of Sherlock’s neck and held on tight for a moment.

John removed his hand from Sherlock’s body, wanting to stand up, needing to assess the situation. Did they need to chase after Mary? Was there some other way that she could come back to hurt them? As he moved, John noticed the unmistakable, metallic scent of blood. He looked down and saw his right forearm covered in a deep red stain, and fear washed through him again.

“Sherlock,” John said in a commanding tone, in an effort to ward off the hysteria he quickly began to feel. “Sherlock, answer me.”

Sherlock nuzzled his head against John’s neck and tried to rouse himself enough to talk. Odd, I must have blacked out, he thought before the searing pain shooting through his left arm registered. He fought back the urge to pass out again. John was here. John needed him to answer. John would know what to do. “John,” he choked out quietly, eyes screwed shut against the pain, trying not to cry into John’s jumper.

“Thank god! Sherlock! Are you okay?” John asked although it was obvious that Sherlock was really not okay and losing quite a bit of blood. 

“Fine, John. I’ll be fine,” Sherlock slurred as he tried to push himself up into a sitting position. John stopped him before he could put any weight on his left arm.

“Sherlock, stop! You’ve been shot. I’m going to roll you onto your right side so I can get a good look, okay?” John narrated as he maneuvered Sherlock’s body onto the sidewalk. He tried to be careful, but at this point he was less concerned about cuts from glass than he was about the fact that Sherlock may have been shot clean through. One gunshot, one bullet, one shattered window. John needed to assess the damage. 

He noticed Sherlock cringing in pain, but John needed him to stay awake for this. Afraid that if he passed out, Sherlock might not come back to him. John called Sherlock’s name, encouraging him to keep talking, but all he could hear from Sherlock were ragged breaths and moans of pain. 

“Stay with me, Sherlock. Don’t you leave me. Look at me. Stay right here,” John commanded in an unending babble of words. Not really giving Sherlock a chance to answer but using his voice as a lifeline to keep Sherlock from drifting away into unconsciousness. 

John found the wound, a hole torn through the arm of his coat, bullet wound grazing the upper portion of his left arm. Still bleeding profusely, but a relatively glancing blow. Just a few more inches and the bullet could have pierced his heart. John could not let himself think about that right now. He needed to keep his focus on the matters at hand and stop Sherlock’s bleeding. 

John was continuing to babble and Sherlock focused in on his voice. He tried his best to block out the pain he was feeling. He wanted to respond to John, he really did, but the words were not coming. He could feel everything he wanted to say swirling around his head, but he could not get his brain to connect with his mouth to put voice to his thoughts. 

He thought they needed to find out where Mary had gone, they needed to stop her, John would take care of him, he was going to be alright, he needed to be alright, everything was just beginning, he and John were just beginning, he had never cared about dying before, had never feared it, but not now, not this time, not when he had something to look forward to, not when he hadn’t had a chance to kiss John Watson. Forget compartmentalization of experience from emotion. In this moment, Sherlock was certain his life would be wasted if he were to die without kissing John Watson. 

He vaguely noticed the scarf being pulled off of his neck. John used it to apply pressure to the wound. Firm, painful pressure to staunch the flow of blood. Sherlock felt the searing pain of the bullet wound, the strength of John’s hands, the reassurance of John’s voice, the grit of the sidewalk beneath his head, and all of these swirling sensations solidified into a single thought. Sherlock fought to open his eyes, to look up at John who was leaning over him and he said the only thing that came to mind. “John, you have the absolute worst taste in women.”

John laughed at that. He laughed, uncontrollably and adrenaline-fueled, while still pressing with all his might to stop the bleeding from Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock felt safe hearing that laugh. Just knowing that John was there with him and would take care of him. Through the haze of pain and fear and John’s laughter came the sound of ambulance sirens.

John felt relief surge through him, though he was not sure if it was due to the snarky comment, the laughter, or the sound of the sirens coming to their rescue. Everything was going to be alright. No, everything was going to be better than alright. Better than either of them could have previously imagined. He would make sure of it. John leaned down and brushed a quick kiss along Sherlock’s temple and he heard the sound of boots hitting the ground as the medics arrived. 

John held tightly to Sherlock’s arm until he was made to give way. Sherlock called his name as strange people encircled him, but John called out, reassuring him, speaking to him as the medics prepared to move him into the waiting ambulance. John hopped in the back and held his uninjured hand all the way to the hospital, squeezing it periodically to let Sherlock know he was still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, all of my "I need to have some sort of drama/crime/intrigue to help drive the story" chickens awkwardly came home to roost in this chapter. I don't claim to be a suspense or mystery writer. 
> 
> Never fear, the worst is over and our boys can finally look forward to their happy ending.


	13. Chapter 13

Once Sherlock emerged from surgery, John felt alternately tender and as though he should be taking video either for remembrance or blackmail sake. Sherlock said the sweetest things while waking from anesthesia. John was sure he’d be mortified. 

Sherlock slept a lot due to the pain medications. That gave John plenty of time to think on the events of the evening, on how he had been such an idiot to not see what was going on, to not see Sherlock’s interest. On how he was so desperate to keep some sense of normalcy in his life, he almost lost the best thing that could have ever happened to him. The best and the wisest and the most infuriating man he had ever met. He made a pledge to himself that, from here on out, he would make sure Sherlock knew how much he meant to him. 

********

Lestrade stopped by the hospital the next morning to check on Sherlock, and he was eventually able to convince John to go home, wash up, and change. It wasn’t until that moment that John put any real thought into the fact that he was still wearing clothes smeared with Sherlock’s blood. Yeah, he could definitely do with a wash and a chance to grab a few things. On his way back to Baker Street, he messaged Molly. 

Once he had cleaned up and gathered some of Sherlock’s clothes and toiletries that might be useful during his hospital stay, John stopped by Oleander’s. Molly stood uncomfortably just inside the door of the shop as though she expected to have to flee at any minute. John explained the situation, that Sherlock had been shot while trying to protect him from being murdered by his serial killer date. How much further down this damning road did John want to go? 

“I need something that is going to show him that I am here for him. For good. He’s already saved my life in more ways than one,” John concluded. 

Molly saved him the trouble of putting voice to more of those feelings by starting to select flowers. “I know.”

“But how?” John asked.

“I’ve know since that very first day. The way he was even more abrasive than usual; I could tell he was eager to impress someone. And I’ve known him long enough to know it couldn’t have been anyone but you,” Molly explained.

She paused for a minute as she came back with some suggestions, letting John choose the meanings for the message he wanted to send. 

“And over the past few days, he looked sad when you couldn’t see him. He’d never let on, but I think he imagined you would never feel similarly,” Molly continued. She wrapped the flowers in paper and ribbon and handed them over. “Whatever you do, John, consider your choice carefully. Don’t rush into anything.” 

********

John returned to the hospital room, nervously clutching the bouquet. Sherlock was awake, looking a bit dazed and pale, but his eyes were as sharp as ever as they focused in, first on John, then on the flowers in his hand. John wondered if his intentions were easy enough to read in the flowers he had chosen. Alstroemeria (devotion), moss rose (confession of love) and yarrow (cure for a broken heart). He had embellished the arrangement with the desiccated seed pods of snap dragons that looked like tiny skulls because he figured Sherlock would appreciate that touch of morbid curiosity. 

“John,” Sherlock said with an unsteady voice, a voice being used for the first time after trauma, “you brought me flowers?” No one had ever given Sherlock flowers before. Sure, his parents brought him back specimens, rare and deadly blooms from the far reaches of the earth, but this was different. This was John. His John. John who had stopped his bleeding and sat by his side all night. After all of his years of trying to shut off sentiment, of scoffing at people who cried with joy when they received a bouquet, Sherlock was not prepared for the rush of feeling that accompanied seeing John in the doorway. 

Sherlock willed himself to hold it together as John walked over, smiling and radiant, in his jacket and terrible jumper that looked not quite so terrible anymore. It looked glorious and John was glorious and brave. Even if his atrocious taste in women got them into this situation in the first place, in that moment Sherlock was willing to forgive John anything if only John would love him back. These drugs are really strong, he thought, tears welling up in his eyes. 

John held out the flowers for Sherlock to inspect and he noticed Sherlock’s eyes filling with tears. John’s threatened to follow suit, but he had never been an easy crier. He was too anxious, knowing he was laying his heart bare as he handed the bouquet over to Sherlock. John reached down and ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair and when Sherlock still would not meet his gaze, he reached over and placed his palm gently against Sherlock cheek. He was reassured to feel Sherlock nuzzle into his hand as John gently swiped his thumb across one of those stunning cheekbones, wiping away a tear that was threatening to fall. 

“Hey,” John said softly. “Here. Look at me.” It was now or never. It felt like it had been forever. Like this outcome had been inevitable. Sherlock tilted his head back to look at John. Hand still gently cupping Sherlock’s cheek, John brought his head down and leaned in. 

The tentative kiss lasted long enough that John was afraid he had made a mistake, that he had overstepped some unspoken boundary, that Sherlock really did not want this despite what outside observers seemed to believe. Despite what John was now certain he wanted with all his heart. His heart sank a bit and he was getting ready to pull away when Sherlock shook off his initial feeling of overwhelm and began to kiss him back. Hesitantly at first, but then the kiss quickly turned more heated as they both dropped their guards and let their feelings for each other come through. They paused for a moment, John pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s before leaning in for another small kiss, lingering, smiling against Sherlock’s lips.

“So,” John said, and trailed off, pulling back to a standing position still feeling the heady rush of the kiss. He watched Sherlock who alternated between looking at the smile still stuck on John’s face and darting away, to the flowers, to his feet under the blankets, just away from the brilliance that was John Watson’s adoration.

Sherlock went back to looking at the flowers, piecing together the meaning, hoping the message he received was accurate, afraid that none of this could possibly be true. The only rational explanation is that the drugs were making his subconscious run amok and John was not really there. Until John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. No, he really was here. Sense memory is not nearly that strong. John coaxed the flowers from his hand and set to arranging them in a vase by the bedside.

Sherlock wondered who’s broken heart was being cured here, John’s or his own? Could they be each other’s cure? Is that what they were already, even though these past couple weeks had been filled with painful longing for a life that he did not think he should want nor that he deserved? And sure, everything was heightened now, due to tragedy and dramatic standoffs. What if it was just a trick of the body’s endorphins and what if John were to realize he did not really love Sherlock the man, but more so the rush of being around Sherlock and the danger that followed him? What if John Watson stopped looking at him with that look of awe and amusement? It would be as catastrophic as if the world stopped turning. Sherlock had to clamp his eyes shut and will away that particular line of thought. 

John was still here. John was staying right by his side. John had saved his life. John. He was saying something.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” John asked in a gently exasperated tone.

“Would it surprise you if I said no?’ Sherlock replied honestly.

John laughed, “Not at all. You must not be as bad off as I thought. Right back to old habits.” He paused to look at Sherlock, then asked, “do you like the flowers?”

“An interesting assortment,” Sherlock said, hoping to draw out more information from John about his thought process. 

“Yes? Molly gave me a bit of help, but I arranged them myself. Here. See,” John said as he held the vase aloft for Sherlock’s inspection. He looked quite proud of himself. It was rather endearing. “I wanted to be sure to choose just the right flowers to appeal to the long-suffering, hidden romantic in you,” 

“I’m not a romantic,” Sherlock protested.

“You’re a goddamned florist, Sherlock. You specialize in the meaning of flowers as a subliminal form of communication for emotions that one does not necessarily want to put words to. Of course you’re a romantic. What else would we call it?” John asked.

“It’s cryptography. Ciphers. A way of conveying information. Nothing romantic about it,” Sherlock said. He could not tell if he should feel offended or secretly pleased that John actually saw that part of him. Not many people could. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Sherlock. I know the truth.” John replied as he put the vase back on Sherlock’s bedside table. 

********

Another day of recovery in hospital and both Sherlock and the nurses were itching for him to be released. John helped Sherlock into an unblemished version of his coat (he really did have lots of coats), holding it up so Sherlock could put his right arm through the sleeve and draping the left side over his shoulder where Sherlock’s arm was immobilized in a sling. 

He wore a t-shirt and one of his dressing gowns because, try as he might, John had not been able to find a shirt among Sherlock’s collection that would fit over his wound dressing. Not among Sherlock’s collection of slim-fitting, luxurious shirts that John spent more time than strictly necessary admiring. Sherlock insisted on wearing a pair of nicely tailored trousers, though. One must maintain some sort of standards. 

Sherlock and John made their way down to the lobby to wait for a cab to take them home. To whatever life would bring their way, together. They climbed into the back of the cab, like they had any number of times before, but this was different.

Sherlock stole a glance over at John who was looking out the window with a small smile on his face. John looked so happy and at ease. How could this possibly be? How could anyone possibly be happy when faced with the prospect of spending unending days with Sherlock Holmes? It seemed John had chosen his side, though, and Sherlock had already deduced how stubborn John Watson could be.

John looked back toward Sherlock who quickly looked away, unwilling to be caught staring at John in the back of a cab like an angsty, lovesick teenager. But he felt something in his body relax. Some piece of that wall around his heart was threatening to give way. 

No one else had ever taken the time to try to find their way through, but here was John, plying him with flowers and asking to be let in to Sherlock’s crazy, catastrophic world that did not necessarily make sense to outside observers. He seemed to revel in it as much as Sherlock did, and Sherlock could not deny that he enjoyed the company, that he wanted John there with him.

Sherlock felt John place a hand on his leg and despite years of never allowing people to get close to him, he felt that, in this case, it was worth it. He caught a glimpse of that look he hoped he would never chase from John’s face, the look that was pure adoration, and he could not help smiling a little himself. He looked away again but thought, yes, definitely worth it.

********

They sat in silence for a few more moments until pulling up to the kerb outside of 221B Baker Street. John paid the cab driver and jumped out to help Sherlock out of the cab. Or that was his intention, but Sherlock had already opened the door and climbed out. Sherlock was getting ready to walk up the steps when Mrs. Hudson threw open the front door. 

“Sherlock!” She said as she pulled him into a hug, careful not to jostle his injured arm. “You gave us a fright, dear.”

Mrs. Hudson turned her attention to John. She gave him a disapproving look as she said, “and you, John. How could you? That woman could have killed our Sherlock. I hope you won’t make that mistake again.”

He looked over at Sherlock before saying, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson. I won’t ever let that happen again.” She could not possibly know how seriously he meant that pledge.

“Okay, dears. You head upstairs. I’ll bring you up some tea and biscuits in a bit,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said hurriedly as he walked past her into the entryway. 

John covered his awkward delivery by saying, “Sherlock really ought to rest. Doctor’s orders,” He chuckled at his bad joke, even if no one else did. “I’ll just get him settled.”

“Suit yourselves,” Mrs. Hudson said with a smirk as she turned back to her flat.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, our boys are apparently happy to be home and this chapter is rather racier than those prior. I've bumped the rating up to M accordingly, but if that's not your thing, the next chapter will be back to business as usual.

Sherlock proceeded quickly up the steps to the flat, throwing open the door with his good arm. John followed him into the sitting room and threw his coat over the arm of his chair. He was preparing to help Sherlock out of his own coat when he heard an unusual clicking sound. 

Also unusual, as John discovered when he turned around, was the look on Sherlock’s face. He had never seen Sherlock look at him with quite so much blatant desire. If John was being honest with himself, he had tried to imagine that look before. Usually, it was while he tried to fall asleep after another awkward goodnight or frustrating interaction. But this was so much better than he had imagined. 

He didn’t have much time to analyze that look before Sherlock pushed him up against the door with just enough force to knock him out of his reverie. The next thing he knew, Sherlock’s lips were on his in a kiss that was anything but hesitant. 

Sherlock had wanted this for so long and now he could have it. Could he? Only one way to find out. He shoved John up against the door, leaned down, and kissed him hard. He started out trying to be careful of his injured arm, but who could care about such trivial things when there was a John Watson to be kissed, a John Watson who was kissing him back with equal fervor. He braced himself against the door with his good arm and focused on taking in the surge of relief and new sensation that he experienced with his lips touching John’s.

“Are you sure you’re okay? What about your arm?” John found the presence of mind to ask even though the last thing he wanted was to stop. 

“It’s merely a flesh wound, John.”

“You were shot, Sherlock. You had surgery just a couple of days ago, and your stitches aren’t even out.” John said, memories of blood and terror flashing back through his mind. The doctor in him knew this was a terrible idea, but he could already tell he would have a hard time saying no.

“A little snogging won’t kill me,” Sherlock said before his lips found John’s again. 

John knew this wasn’t just a little snogging. Sherlock was kissing him as if his life depended on it, as if he might never have this chance again. John ran his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip and Sherlock allowed John to deepen the kiss. He slowed their pace a bit, making everything more languid and sensual. No need to rush. He had the rest of his life to kiss Sherlock Holmes. 

John noticed Sherlock leaning rather awkwardly into his right arm braced against the door, leaning down to reach John’s lips, trying to get closer while keeping his injured arm out of the way. John reached up, continuing the kiss, waiting for the proper moment where he could catch Sherlock off balance. 

Sherlock found himself pressed into the door and, oh, he kind of liked this better. After taking a moment to admire the look of determination and desire on John’s face, Sherlock smiled impishly and began kissing John again. John pressed against Sherlock’s right side, trying but mostly failing to avoid his injured arm. Sherlock did not care about his arm right now. The only thing that mattered was John whose lips were currently nipping along his jawline, and kissing down his throat.

That felt unreasonably good. All of it did. Why had he spent so much time keeping himself removed from these sensations? Why had it taken so long for John Watson to enter his life? Why hadn’t they done this before? Not that it mattered. They were here now. Sherlock tilted his head to give John better access to his neck. 

John paused with his lips against Sherlock’s neck and took a deep breath in. Surrounding himself in scent and sensation, running the risk of drowning in the feelings that he had not allowed himself to feel and barely allowed himself to admit to. Until now. 

John decided to be brave and try his hand at some new descriptors as he mouthed against Sherlock’s neck, forming words with a soft voice, “you are gorgeous. Stunning. Do you know how bloody attractive you are?” he asked as he nipped at Sherlock’s earlobe and sucked gently. Sherlock moaned and moved his head to seek out John’s mouth. 

John crowded in further, stradling Sherlock’s leg and groaned into Sherlock’s mouth at the much desired pressure on his cock. Sherlock moved his hand until it was resting just above the swell of John’s arse, urging him closer, seeking more friction. 

“Just a little snogging, huh?” John asked with more amusement in his tone than Sherlock found strictly appropriate.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock said, more elegant rejoinders escaping him at the moment. 

So much for being able to say no to Sherlock Holmes. John leaned in but he could not get a proper angle while avoiding Sherlock’s injured arm. Instead, he reached down and ran his hand over the front of Sherlock’s trousers. 

Sherlock’s hips involuntarily pushed up into John’s touch. At some other time he might have found that lack of control mortifying, but he could not find it in himself to care at the moment. The whole world had shrunk down to 221B, to this sitting room, to the door they were leaning against, to John’s body and lips and hands touching him. It was glorious. 

Sherlock vaguely registered John’s comment about how maybe Sherlock found him attractive too, and he made a scoffing sound somewhere between a laugh and exasperation. If John required such blatant indicators of attraction to prove Sherlock’s desire, then no wonder it had taken them this long to get here. 

“I will forgive you for stating the obvious as long as you keep your hand there,” Sherlock said in a snarky tone modulated by the lusty kissing they had recently been engaged in. Sherlock wanted to dispense with words and get back to it. 

“Oh, I intend to do better than that, if you will let me,” John replied in a flirtatious, teasing tone. He darted his tongue out to lick his bottom lip as he moved his fingers up to Sherlock’s belt buckle. 

God, that tongue. Sherlock wanted it back in his mouth, or maybe on other parts of his body. He was not even sure what parts, he just knew that he wanted. His reservations slashed and burned by the heat and brilliance of the man pressing him into this door. Sherlock threw his head back, closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip as John’s hand hovered over his belt buckle. “Yes, please. John,” he said, every nerve ending waiting for what came next.

John undid Sherlock’s belt buckle and his trousers all while kissing at that long, beautiful neck Sherlock had so graciously bared to him. He placed his hand on Sherlock’s stomach, tentatively brushing his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and paused for a second with the strangeness, the enormity, the meaning that suffused this moment. Apparently, this was John’s line and he was getting ready to cross it. 

He was more than ready. He knew there was no going back. John wanted nothing more than everything that came after this moment, so eager to leave behind the agonizing years that had led him here. He just needed to take a minute to breathe it in. To appreciate the moment. His therapist would be so proud of him.

Sherlock had other ideas. He leaned his hip forward, pressing more firmly between John’s legs. John rocked his hips into Sherlock’s thigh, and used his hand behind Sherlock’s neck to pull him into another kiss. Confusion and misperceptions were let go and that line was crossed like it never existed in the first place. John’s right hand tugged at the elastic on Sherlock’s pants until he could wrap his hand around Sherlock’s cock. His movements felt a bit clumsy, but he hoped that his enthusiasm would trump the awkwardness. 

Sherlock certainly did not seem to mind, his breath coming in short gasps. John rutted against Sherlock’s thigh, swallowing Sherlock’s moans and whispered mentions of his name, trying to set up a mutually beneficial rhythm between them. He could feel Sherlock’s body tense, reveling in his responsiveness, and with just a few more strokes he could feel Sherlock’s orgasm as he stroked him through it. 

John was very close himself and they were not going to change positions if he had anything to say about it. He leaned in more intently, gripping Sherlock’s hip, kissing Sherlock’s now somewhat slack mouth even more hungrily. Sherlock was watching him with an unguarded, sated, languorous look. That unexpected sense of ease undid John and he came with a shout that Sherlock muffled with a deep kiss. 

Sherlock finally pulled back with a wry smile on his face. "We wouldn't want Mrs. Hudson to hear now, would we? Do try to be quieter next time."

"Look who's talking. I'm sure your breathing could be heard all the way downstairs, not to mention your moans," John retorted admiring the flush of Sherlock's cheeks, his puffy, well-kissed lips. How did he get this lucky? How was this even possible? "You are so goddamn sexy. Do you know that?" John asked in all sincerity. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, almost imperceptibly shaking his head no. Clearly, he was not used to being complemented in such a way. John would take great pleasure in changing that. Just another way he was going to enjoy spending the rest of his life.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something entirely different. Feelings ahoy.

A strange quiet came over them as they settled into being back home. Sherlock had changed into pyjamas for lounging around the flat and John decided to follow suit. Why shouldn’t they both be comfortable? 

John insisted on checking Sherlock’s stitches before letting him do anything else. Sherlock fidgeted and huffed, and said insistently, “I’m fine, John.”

“Can you just sit still for a minute?” John asked with an edge of irritation in his voice. He was not to be deterred from making sure that Sherlock’s wound healed better than the gunshot scar John himself had been left with. 

John’s focused attention made Sherlock feel like a trapped animal and he began tapping his foot nervously. As the recent rush of excitement and endorphins and relief gave way to rational thought, he began to feel more and more concerned. About where they stood and how irrevocably everything seemed to have changed. 

Sherlock could not bring himself to look at John directly, shooting quick glances at John’s fingers bandaging his upper arm, at the soft, striped jumper that covered his torso. Anywhere but at John’s face, afraid of what he might find once the looks of desire and need had been replaced. By what? Sherlock wasn’t sure he was prepared to find out. 

Once John was appeased and had re-dressed his wound, Sherlock retreated to the sofa for the remainder of the day. He crunched up in a ball in a way that wasn’t at all comfortable but sort of matched his mental state and he willed himself to sleep. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that he had made a serious misstep and pushed too far. That would be so like him. He felt the tingling reminder of John’s lips on his, of John’s hand resting on his stomach, and he curled in on himself even further. He could hear John clattering around the kitchen but it felt like he was a million miles away. 

********

John checked the refrigerator in the off chance it might contain something edible, but as usual that was not the case. Instead, he grabbed a flyer from the counter and picked up his phone to order some delivery. 

Sherlock was conspicuously quiet. John had seen him go almost catatonic before, sat in his chair, fingers steepled, not responding to simple questions like “Is this venus fly trap meant to share the kitchen table with us?” or “Did you get the milk?” or “Why are there spleens in the refrigerator?” He had found that the best way to deal was to leave Sherlock be until he came back to himself, but he looked so miserable and small curled up on the couch.

“Do you want some tea?” John asked. The lack of reply was not terribly surprising. John made some tea for himself and placed a mug on the coffee table for Sherlock, just in case. 

John sat down at the table and checked his blog, but there were no comments or messages. What had he expected? He didn’t really have much of a following besides his therapist and his sister who was never going to let him live down the flower arranging class. One more thing for her to tease him about mercilessly. Just wait until she hears about all this, he thought. Harry was going to give him hell. 

The only other reliable reader of his blog was his maniac florist flatmate who was currently sulking on the couch after having snogged the life out of him the moment they walked in the flat.

John decided to make a declaration. That’s what people did with their blogs, right? Make pronouncements to a world that may or may not care? John made a cryptic post about how much his life has changed in recent weeks. About how he once thought that nothing ever happened to him and that he would never really feel fully alive or happy again, but he had been so spectacularly wrong about that. 

He left out the parts about going on a date with a serial killer and his flatmate getting shot. He hadn't even gotten to that whole flatmate part in the first place. And he certainly wasn’t about to make mention of the quickie against the door as they got home from the hospital. There was really only so much John was willing to express to a not-so-anonymous public about the workings of his private life. What he did say was that life finally felt like living again in a way that he hadn’t anticipated feeling after all the years of pain and misery and never feeling like there was truly a place for him to be himself. 

John closed his computer, turned on the telly, and settled in the empty space opposite Sherlock. Since their almost, not-quite, was-it-really-going-to-be-a-kiss in the flower fridge, everything had happened so quickly. He had been on a rollercoaster of emotions and adrenaline and revelations and personal epiphanies. As much as he hoped that this may finally be a place for him to be true to himself, he was also afraid that he had rushed things. Maybe they were getting too far ahead of themselves. 

********

Sherlock woke as he felt John sit down at the other end of the couch. That was a promising sign, right? Sherlock still couldn’t shake the feeling of mortification he felt at having practically attacked John as soon as they walked in the door. What was that about? 

It had become very clear to him over the years that he did not feel things the way most other people do. He had never really known the appropriate ways to interact with his desire much less share that with others. He so rarely even cared to try, and when he did, he was called obsessive or irrational. 

What he did know was that, in that moment, the empty space between them was excruciating. As scared as he was, Sherlock slowly started to uncurl, like there was a magnetic pull between him and John Watson. If he was going to be rebuffed, he just needed to know. 

Sherlock felt a mix of anticipation and dread as his feet moved closer to John’s legs. Closer until just the tip of his toes touched John’s thigh. Closer until he could move his toes under John’s legs. Until John said, “Stop being ridiculous and give me your legs,” and then what could Sherlock do but obey? He unfurled, laying his legs across John’s lap and Sherlock reveled in the warmth of John’s hand placed gently on his shins.

********

John flipped through the channels and paused momentarily on a news show. Somehow, their latest conspiracy theorist reporters had decided that the serial killings were an elaborate copycat suicide scheme. 

“Turn this off, John. We know what really happened.” 

“But how do you know it’s over?” John asked.

“She knows we are on to her now. She would have to be stupid or lazy to continue on the way she started. MI5 is on her trail, so she’s going to have a much harder time getting away with anything. She’ll have been driven underground if they haven’t caught her already,” Sherlock explained. 

The news story would eventually fade away and the country would forget and move on. It always happened that way. John certainly hoped that Sherlock was right about that last bit. He never wanted to meet Mary face-to-face again. 

John continued half-heartedly flipping through the channels, making sure to stay well clear of the news as well as some police procedural show that Sherlock solved within three minutes with his back facing the television screen. 

“It was the janitor. Obvious,” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow he was now clutching to his chest. “He was the only one with access to every part of the building. How could it possibly take them a full hour to solve this case? Oh yes, because everyone is an idiot.” 

Sherlock’s brain was really a marvelous thing. John felt so lucky to be able to observe this private, domestic side of him. He was acting so strangely today, though. Whatever had sparked between them earlier seemed to have flickered out as quickly as it had started. John hoped that was something he could fix. He hated to think that they had ruined whatever they had in the aftermath of very nearly losing each other.

********

“Come on, let’s get ready for bed,” John said. After lying on the couch all day, Sherlock stood up with all the gangly grace of a newborn giraffe. John stifled a laugh and prepared to catch Sherlock if he fell, but he didn’t. He composed himself beautifully and abruptly walked away, closing himself in the bathroom. 

John picked up Sherlock’s cold mug of tea and poured it down the kitchen sink. He filled a glass with water and put it on the table next to Sherlock’s bed before returning to the kitchen to put away the food that Sherlock refused to eat. Once he saw that the bathroom door was slightly ajar, John popped in to get cleaned up before heading up to bed. 

********

Sherlock drank down the water that John had left for him before crawling under the covers. He lay in the semi-darkness, only the light from a table lamp illuminating the room, and imagined he could feel the weight of the darkness settling in around him. 

John walked in and smiled softly when he saw the empty water glass. He refilled it and walked back to Sherlock’s room to say goodnight. Pausing by the door briefly, John was not sure whether he should ask to stay or just go. He was about to walk out the door when Sherlock said, “John.” 

“Yeah?” John asked.

“Stay.” Sherlock replied. It was the first thing Sherlock had said to him in hours, and John felt relief surge through him. 

“Yes, of course.” 

John settled into the bed next to Sherlock. He took a deep breath, preparing for the question he needed to ask. 

“Are you okay?” 

John turned on his side to watch Sherlock’s face, to admire his profile in the dim light. To try to gather more information than what he was able to glean from the silence that had stretched between them throughout the day. 

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock asked in a prickly tone. It indicated far more about his current state of mind than he really wanted to let on but he couldn’t help it. He needed to protect himself. Needed to keep John at arm’s length, to push him away before he decided to walk away on his own. 

“I don’t know. You’ve been oddly silent since...we got home,” John replied hesitantly.

“That’s just what I do, John. Get used to it.”

Sherlock lay still, staring at the ceiling, wishing he could avoid any more of this conversation. The early results of this whole falling in love with your probably-mostly-straight flatmate experiment were proving disastrous and made him feel more hopeless and self-loathing than usual. 

“And I will, if that is the truth. I will dump out your frigid cups of tea and pick up the pillows you throw on the floor and I will continue to order takeaway that you won’t actually eat. But I feel like there is something else going on here. Is this about earlier?” 

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and sighed deeply. “Can we forget about earlier?”

“Why?” John asked. Please don’t say you regret it, he thought. 

“That’s just not me.”

“Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“I know that,” Sherlock snapped.

“What I mean is it’s not a completely irrational reaction to surviving significant trauma. Something life-affirming.” 

“But don’t you see? It’s so much more than that. It has been since we met,” Sherlock said with something embarrassingly close to a pleading tone in his voice. 

“I know it is,” John said softly. He reached across the space between them and rested his hand lightly on Sherlock’s stomach. 

“And that’s what I can’t live with. You are attracted to dangerous people and situations. But I can’t keep that up all the time, as much as I might want to try. What is going to happen when you get bored? When you realize you’ve had enough of my strops, of my experiments in the kitchen, of me? What then?”

There were tears in Sherlock’s eyes by the time he finished but he refused to look anywhere but straight ahead, staring resolutely at the ceiling. John watched his face closely, his fingers playing with the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt, eventually working their way underneath to brush lightly against the skin of his stomach, soothing. 

“What happens the next time some attractive woman gives you her phone number? You won’t want me around then,” Sherlock said, admitting the thing he most feared. That no matter how much danger and intrigue he brought to the table, he would never be who John truly wanted or desired. 

“Hey. I know things have moved fast all of a sudden. But this is not pity, Sherlock, and it’s not settling, if that is what you’re worried about. I don’t have an excuse for not saying anything sooner, and I know I have my own internalized shite to deal with.” John paused, taking a deep, shaky breath before continuing.

“Yes, I thought my life had been turned upside down and I just needed some sort of normalcy to balance out the whirlwind of change. What I didn’t realize was that the whirlwind was what I really needed. What I wanted was you. Those thoughts don’t come as quite as much of a surprise as you might think, but they are easier not to act on because I’ve been told all my life that it is wrong. But how could this be wrong? You, how could you be wrong?”

“I rarely ever am,” Sherlock interjected with a small sniffle. 

“So modest, you,” John chuckled. He continued in a more solemn tone, “but I thought you didn’t want me. That you didn’t feel things that way.” He felt Sherlock tense a bit at that comment.

“So I thought it was safer to tuck that desire away. I could be happy staying by your side, admiring your brilliant mind, trying not to imagine your gorgeous body hidden beneath that enormous coat of yours, forcing you to eat from time to time, wondering what would be the next form of privacy invasion you were going to pull on me. By the way, did you really install a tracking app on my phone? That’s a little creepy, don’t you think?” 

Tears were rolling down Sherlock’s face and John’s eyes were stinging. He inched closer, wrapping his arm across Sherlock’s waist and nuzzling against his cheek. 

“Look, I don’t take any of this lightly, Sherlock. You’ve already given me so much. I was so close to giving it all up before I ran into you.”

Now, it was John's turn for the tears. He pressed his face closer to Sherlock’s and was surprised to find lips meeting his. Salty, wet kisses full of a bittersweet mixture of sadness and heart and hope. 

John pulled back, looking into Sherlock’s eyes and said, “my attraction to you is not brand new and it is not going anywhere. Honestly, it’s a little terrifying, but I’m willing to give it a go if you are.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded his agreement, eventually drifting off to sleep under the effects of lazy kisses and his latest dose of pain medication. John watched quietly as his breathing evened out, feeling a contentment he had never known before. He didn’t believe in miracles; he hadn’t been given much cause to in his life. But having survived long enough to lay in bed next to Sherlock Holmes felt as close to a miracle as he was ever likely to experience.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock slowly began to peel back the layers of sleep. He first became aware of the dull ache in his arm, twinging him back into reality. The next thing he noticed was the warm pressure across his waist. He inhaled sharply and a small smile spread across his face at the realization. John was still here. John stayed with him. He wanted to stay in this in-between space forever, warm and comfortable and finally at ease. 

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John’s eyes searching his face. This was something entirely new, but not exactly unpleasant. Sherlock savoured this wonderful development as he slowly dragged himself out of the sleepy haze surrounding him. 

“Good morning,” John said softly, enjoying the simple pleasure of watching Sherlock struggle out of sleep. 

“Mmmph,” Sherlock replied, rolling onto his back and throwing his good arm across his eyes. He was not quite ready to be verbal yet. Everything was too bright and he was not used to such close scrutiny first thing in the morning. 

John’s hand splayed across Sherlock’s stomach once he had settled in. After a long moment of silence, John asked, “so what’s this about a garden?”

“What?” Sherlock asked. He looked back at John, suddenly much more awake and sounding rather alarmed. 

“You were mumbling something in your sleep. Something about a garden,” John replied.

……

“What other secrets are you hiding from me?” John asked.

“You may never know.”

“Well, I’ll enjoy teasing them out of you,” John said fondly, leaning forward to drop a kiss on Sherlock’s lips before pulling back to announce, “I’m going to make us some breakfast.” 

Sherlock threw his arm back across his eyes. “I’m not hungry,” he said. 

John marveled at his own ability to find a pouting 30-something year old amusing, but god help him, he did. At least at the moment. 

“Well, you didn’t eat yesterday, so you are going to eat something. Even if I have to force it down your throat,” he said.

********

Sherlock eventually dragged himself out of bed when John yelled from the kitchen that breakfast was ready. No sense in risking the lovely sense of ease that settled over them by pushing his luck. He shuffled down the hall and sat at the table across from John. The plate full of food looked wonderful despite Sherlock’s denials of hunger. There was so much he had gotten used to denying himself, but those denials were not always strictly the truth. 

John sat reading the paper like it was just another day in a long line of days, like nothing spectacular was happening here. He sipped his tea and ate his toast and cast a glance toward Sherlock, encouraging him to eat. And maybe it was just something as mundane as breakfast. Maybe it was just another day. 

Sherlock, however, was overwhelmed by how dramatically this one person now colored his whole life. Sherlock picked up his fork and began to eat, letting his mind drift, contemplating the new flowers he could bring in to Oleander’s to adequately illustrate this change. Vibrant reds to match the blood beating through John’s steady heart, yellow golds to highlight John’s sandy hair and the light he brought to Sherlock’s life, deep blues to match the color of his eyes. John eventually cleared away Sherlock’s empty plate, but Sherlock was lost in thought, planning all the wonderful possibilities for a whole new variety of showy blooms. 

********

After breakfast, Sherlock led John up the stairs toward what heretofore had been his room. “Where are we going,” John asked. 

“You wanted to see the garden, didn’t you?” was Sherlock’s somewhat huffy reply. The “obviously” was implied. 

They continued down the hall to a door that John had never thought to look behind. He had wondered about it, sure, but he didn’t want to pry. Someone had to uphold some small amount of respect for privacy around here. 

Sherlock opened the door, flipped a light switch, and began climbing another flight of stairs toward what looked like a fire door bolted shut with many different locks. This level of security seemed like a bit of overkill, more in line with some sort of top secret laboratory or maybe a medieval dungeon. But considering Sherlock’s propensity for the dramatic, John figured it wasn’t overly alarming. 

Sherlock unlatched the deadbolt without a problem, but then began struggling to unlock the other locks one-handed, trying to maneuver the key into the lock using his good hand, his body, and the force of his incredibly stubborn will. 

John watched for a moment, amazed at the single-minded tenacity on display. “Do you need some help?” 

Sherlock ignored him, continuing to fumble with the locks. 

“Sherlock? Dammit, Sherlock, here. Just let me help.” John demanded as he nudged Sherlock out of the way to hold the lock still for him.

Sherlock begrudgingly allowed John to help, heaving a put upon sigh as he finally threw open the door. “Just don’t touch anything,” Sherlock said. 

Okay, bossy, John thought, a hint of irritation creeping in. Then, his breath caught in his throat as he stepped outside. It was an oasis of color, all manner of flowers blooming from this hidden rooftop. How had he not known this was here?

“Sherlock, this is incredible.” John said in awe, not really expecting any sort of response. It was just one more unexpected piece of evidence offered up to his infatuation with Sherlock Holmes. John looked more closely at the tubes feeding into each flower bed. “Is this an irrigation system?” John asked. 

“Yes, calibrated for each plant’s optimal water needs. Naturally. I devised it myself,” Sherlock said, distracted by his own observations as he walked the perimeter of the garden. 

“I said don’t touch,” Sherlock warned as John leaned in to examine a spike of purple monkshood. “Aconite. Even a touch can cause numbness, tingling, dizziness, or heart palpitations.” 

“Fantastic,” John muttered under his breath, marveling at Sherlock’s ingenuity and wealth of specialized knowledge while also stepping gingerly away from the poisonous flowers. It was amazing how much meaning he could suffuse into a single word these days. He figured Sherlock would eventually grow tired of hearing these exclamations, but today was not the day. 

“What was that?” Sherlock asked.

John walked over to where Sherlock stood, turning him so they were facing each other. John looked him right in the eye and said, “Fantastic. You are fantastic. Everything about you. This,” John gestured at the garden. “This is amazing. Thank you for showing me,” John continued because he realized that Sherlock didn’t strictly have to let him in on this secret.

Sherlock looked down at John, frowning slightly in confusion at his admiration and awe, at this person who saw something in him that no one else saw.

John reached up and grabbed the lapels of his coat, coaxing him down into a kiss filled with so much affection that Sherlock tried to be deserving of it. To fill the kiss with all the trite words that people said too easily, but that he finally thought he might have a chance of understanding. John Watson might actually make him mean it. He made all those sappy cliches about swooping stomachs and soaring hearts finally make some sort of sense. 

Eventually, John pulled back, smiling and tracing his finger over Sherlock’s forehead, the creases from his former frown long gone. “Good. No more frowning, okay? I like this look much better,” John said. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure what look he was talking about. It was still his face. Was it the look that he feared left his heart bare for all to see? He had spent so many years perfecting his emotionless mask and here was John to strip it all away. He smiled softly down at John anyway, one side of his mouth quirking up. However, confusion quickly settled in again as the look of happiness and adoration on John’s face shifted suddenly to one of revulsion. 

“Dear god, what is that smell?” John asked in horror as an overwhelming, putrid scent wafted their way. The decomposing body from the crime scene hadn’t even smelled that bad. 

“Oh, my corpse flower must have bloomed,” Sherlock said, grateful for the distraction. Truly, there were only so many emotional declarations he could handle in one day. He spun on his heel, and rushed eagerly toward the giant flower that smelled worse than death itself.

“John, come see!”

It wouldn’t be the last time John wondered what exactly his life had become, but he followed Sherlock anyway. He certainly was never bored, and he found he rather liked it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I leave you for now. I may have a few more ideas for where I want to take these two, but they have yet to be written. Thankfully, NaNoWriMo is here again to give me a nudge in that direction. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me until the very end. This was a ridiculous flight of fancy, but it's been ridiculously fun to write. And it's been such a pleasure sharing this story with you! Each of your comments and kudos and bookmarks has sincerely warmed my heart.


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